Internationale Dag tegen het Geweld tegen Vrouwen: Wat zijn Patriarchale Structuren?

Vandaag is het Internationale Dag tegen het Geweld tegen Vrouwen. Voor mij mag het elke dag Internationale Dag van de Eliminatie van alle soorten geweld zijn, want ook al lijkt de mens en de wereld te "evolueren", toch zijn de cijfers van geweld huiveringwekkend. Denk maar aan de grote groepsverkrachtingen in India of aan de ontvoering van al deze schoolmeisjes in Nigeria. In België, las ik vandaag in de media, worden 150 vrouwen jaarlijks door hun man vermoord. Geweld tegen vrouwen is overal. Sommige mensen zeggen dat door de globalisering van de media onbekende verhalen aan de oppervlak komen en daardoor een schijn geven dat er een stijging in geweld is, wat ik als een reden zie, maar niet als de enige reden. Ik zie ook de verankering van de patriarchaat in onze wereld als een reden van de stijging van het geweld. In een van de volgende blogs zal ik uitleggen hoe de structurele aanpassingen (SATs) van de World Trade Organisation (een van de voorvechters van patriarchaal kapitalisme) in de jaren' 80 voor "heksenverbrandingen" in Afrika zorgden. 

(Eco)feminisme en de Patriarchaat

Er zijn veel redenen waarom we meer (eco)feminisme in ons dagelijks leven nodig hebben, omdat het een kader biedt aan alle problemen, en een oplossing aandient. De roots -volgens (eco)feminisme- van alle problemen in de wereld -van racisme tot vernietiging van de natuur- ligt bij de patriarchale 

structuur van de maatschappij, die de mannelijke waarden en normen hoger ziet dan de vrouwelijke waarden en normen.  In deze video (Engelstalig) legt Marina Watanabe uit hoe de patriarchale structuur iedereen -man en vrouw- schaadt en onze kansen limiteert. 

Zij is een 21 jarige die "Vrouwenstudies", met minor "communicatie" in USA studeert. Op haar youtube kanaal legt ze in korte video's topics uit waar feminisme meer helderheid of zelfs een oplossing kan bieden, zoals waarom meisjes zich op Halloween vooral als hoeren verkleden. 

From Apple Computer to Apple Tree

(c) wendiertje89 on Instagram
Fall in East-Germany, 2014

 Dreaming as reply to the Fall in the World

Winter is Coming. It's one of the most popular and known quotes from the series Game of Thrones. It means that dark times are coming, but it also means that we are in fall, the time between summer and winter, when things start to change. Trees start to loose their leaves, the birds fly to other regions and the temperature starts to decrease. In this period we pluck the fruits of our hard work in the previous seasons and keep it in a dry place, so we can survive the cold, dead winter. People who look further, see the spring after this dead period, and start to plant fruit trees and spread seeds from spinach, salads, parsley and even carrots, because fall is also the period when you can change a lot of things. 

My brother and I are very aware of the crisis, the winter, the dark times, that are coming to us, or in fact, already started. There is a big fall in the world. In two meanings of the world.  The Patriarchal capitalism is spreading as a disease over whole the world, polluting the grounds, the water, the air and the human mind. The violence against women and foreigners increased, biotechnology changed the genetics of seeds and plants so engineers control who has access to food and who not, we are working for money that does not exist, because the banks are speculating with it... etc. I believe the only way to solve many problems is when people have access to small pieces of ground and can grow their own food, as I said in the previous blog about "the future of food". That is why my brother and I decided to do something with the ground that we hearted from our grandparents. We want to create a safe haven, that gives us food, that frees us and our beloved ones from the capitalist patriarchy that makes from us slaves of our own wage, that let us be in contact with nature and let us be in control of our own life. We started to dream... as a reply to the fall in the world. 

Planning with Permaculture Design
Last Summer I participated in the permaculture design course from Regreen ecocenter in Greece. These were two of the most interesting weeks in my life, because apart from the knowledge I also got some skills and tools to achieve my dreams: my mind and my hands became different in my eyes. 
Together with my brother we made a map of our ground and started to draw. We decided to have a greenhouse (without warming elements), but also a place with a self made contain and picknick tables. We also made different phases, to give us enough time. We hoped that in the summer and fall of 2016 we would be 30% self-sustainable. We think it's important to have a part-time job, to pay taxes, medical care etc... but we also think we can save a lot of money by providing ourselves with vegetables, fruits and eggs. 

I have to admit that I feel guilty that I spend too much time with my apple computer. Technology is promoted as progress, something that should make everything goes faster, but instead of creating more time for ourselves, I've the feeling I've not enough time. Nothing can go fast enough. By going back to the nature, and planting apple trees and other seeds, I hope to find again a balance with myself and the world, find more time for myself and can feel really happy and satisfied with what I am doing. Being self-sustainable is not only about being in control of your food, but also in control of your mind. I know that my mind is still a slave of all the ruling dogma's of the patriarchy. 

Maybe that's also why I am so interested for ecofeminism. It is a political answer on racism, sexism, class exploitation and environmental destruction, that not only maps the problems (all the roots of the bad things happening in the world are in patriarchy according to ecofeminists), but also provides the solutions: subsistence. 

(c) The Ecologist

Acting, because actions tell more than words

Since the end of June our garden started to change. We bought 3 chickens. We built a picknick table and a terrace where we hope to celebrate nice evening gatherings with friends. We made a greenhouse where we planted seeds for vegetables for next spring - and I love writing about it and sharing it with Facebook, because it makes me proud that I am doing these things for myself, for the world and for nature.

Today my brother, his friend and I planted also 18 fruit trees: mulberries, apricots, pears, apples, cherries and nuts will be hopefully the main ingredients of our diet. Soon I will plant some flowers (like narcissus) and herbs that belong to guilds of plants protecting trees against diseases and insects and/or making the soil more fertile, but according to a garden architect our soil is perfect for fruit trees, so we will focus on plants that will fight against the pests and diseases. In the next months I will give a list of the guilt of plants we used, what kind of problems we (hopefully not) faced and the solutions we (hopefully) found. 

 Celebrating, as the 4th and most important phase of Dragon Dreaming. 
That's for later, but the feeling that I am doing something good feels already as a nice celebration for the soul. 

waarom Ecofeministen "The 40 Rules of Love" van Elif Shafak moeten lezen

Onlangs las ik in mijn favoriete magazine MO* over Elif Shafak. Zij is een van de bekendste vrouwelijke schrijvers uit Turkije. Op haar naam heeft ze meer dan dertien titels. Ze is geboren in Frankrijk, opgegroeid in Istanboel en woont momenteel in London. "In haar verhalen geeft ze een stem aan vrouwen, minderheden, subculturen, immigranten en mondiale zielen. Ze bevecht clichés en taboes, doorbreekt culturele grenzen en heeft een zwak voor geschiedenis, filosofie, cultuur, mystiek en gendergelijkheid." Deze twee zinnen maakten me zeer nieuwsgierig. Ik wil zoals Elif Shafak zijn. Wanneer ik las dat ze ook nog eens gevaccineerd is door de soeficultuur, besloot ik een boek van haar te lezen. Ik koos voor "The Forty Rules of Love", omdat het over de ontmoeting tussen Rumi, de bekendste soefi-dichter en de Shams van Tabriz gaat. Ik las het boek in een ruk uit, en tijdens het lezen besefte ik dat ik niet zoals Elif Shafak wil zijn. Ik wil mezelf zijn. Elif is echter een eco-feminist, een woord dat zelfs een keer in deze novel genoemd wordt.  Haar novel gaat niet over een eco-feminist, maar zit vol waarden en idealen van ecofeminisme. 

bron: http://www.mo.be/interview/elif-shafak-turkije-lijdt-aan-geheugenverlies

West Meets East

Love came to Ella as suddenly and brusquely as if

 a stone had been burled from out of nowhere into the tranquil pond of her life. 

Het verhaal van soefisme ontplooit zich in twee parallelle vertellingen. In de dertiende eeuw hoort een beruchte ronddwalende derwisj met de naam Shams van Tabriz over een geleerde in Konya die een leegte in zijn hart voelt. Shams zoekt een zielgenoot om al zijn kennis, en vooral zijn 40 regels over liefde, met iemand te delen en voelt aan dat deze geleerde de persoon is die hij zoekt: Rumi.
Hun ontmoeting maakt van Rumi een mystieke dichter. In Amerika vandaag valt in de handen van Ella, een ongelukkige Amerikaanse huisvrouw,  een nog niet gepubliceerd manuscript van een zekere Aziz, dat over deze ontmoeting tussen Shams en Rumi gaat. Terwijl ze dit boek leest vindt Ella de moed om haar eigen transformatie te ondergaan. In dit boek smelten Oost en West, het verleden en het heden samen in een prachtig boek dat je met een glimlach eindigt.

Reizen verruimt de geest
Elif Shafak heeft zelf een nomadisch leven geleid. Haar liefde voor het nomadisch leven vertaalt zich in haar verhalen en haar personages die ook op reis vertrekken, zoals Ella, of al op reis zijn zoals Shams, en over de wijsheid te vertellen die ze daarbij vergaren. Zelf geloof ik ook dat een ecofeminist de wereld moet intrekken om te beseffen dat we allemaal druppels in een grote oceaan zijn. We zijn verschillend, maar tegelijk dragen we allemaal bij tot een groter geheel. Dat is een ecofeministische visie: liefde voor diversiteit, maar afkeer voor dualiteit.

Dualiteit
Een van de zonen van Rumi ziet de wereld duidelijk in dualisme. Hij ziet Shams en hij ziet Rumi, maar beseft niet dat ze op hun beste zijn als ze samen zijn en niet gescheiden. Shams vertelt hem een verhaal over een scheel kijkende man die van zijn meester een pot moet halen. Hij ziet echter twee potten en keert terug naar zijn meester om te vragen welke pot hij moet nemen. De meester stelt hem voor om een pot te breken en de andere te brengen. De scheel kijkende persoon breekt een pot en ziet dat de andere pot ook gebroken is. Dat is kijken met een bril van dualisme.

De testen van Shams
Shams laat Rumi verschillende testen ondergaan. Hij wil dat hij met mensen van lagere klassen omgaat, zoals prostituees, dronkaards, lepra-patiënten... In ecofeminisme bestaat geen onderscheid tussen klassen. Ecofeminisme gaat tegen patriarchale structuren, tegen denken in termen van ik vs anderen en klassenverschil.

Feminisme
Ella is echt een stereotiep voorbeeld van de ongelukkige huisvrouw in een zogenaamd prachtig leven, prachtig huis en zogezegd perfecte kinderen die allemaal studeren.  Dit personage confronteert ons met het beeld van de "perfecte vrouw". Door haar een ander koers te doen inslaan toont Elif dat we niet allemaal moeten eindigen zoals de typische Mad Men Housewife. 

Spiegels 
Pas wanneer Shams of Aziz uit het leven van respectievelijk Rumi en Ella verdwijnen, kunnen beide personen pas aan de laatste fase van hun transformatie beginnen. Het laatste deel noemt "The Void: the things that are present through their absence" en deze naam symboliseert de functie van Shams en Aziz in de transformatie. Als echte zielsgenoten waren ze een spiegel voor de ziel van Rumi en Ella. Ze zien een waarheid die ze niet eerder hebben aanschouwd. Pas wanneer hun zielsgenoten verdwijnen -zoals vele zielsgenoten doen, omdat het deel is van een zielsgenot zijn- beseffen ze dat ze altijd aan deze waarheid kunnen door in zichzelf te keren en in hun eigen hart te kijken.

Soefisme verschilt niet zo hard van ecofeminisme... lijkt me.

De Feministische Avant-Garde van de 1970s: Francesca Woodman

Vandaag hebben een vriendin van Iran en ik de tentoonstelling "WOMAN - The Feminist Avant-Garde of the 1970s" in Bozar bezocht. Deze tentoonstelling loopt van 18 juni tot 31 augustus in het Brusselse en bevat beelden van de Sammlung Verbund in Wenen. De namen van de artiesten zeiden me niets, maar tijdens mijn reis doorheen de jaren zeventig werd ik verliefd op de verhalen, boodschappen en werken van Francesca Woodman, Mary Beth Edelson, Ulrike Rosenbach, Birgit Jürgenssen en Sanja Ivekovic dat ik  zelf mijn fototoestel wil nemen en mezelf als vrouw wil verkennen. 

Vooral Francesca Woodman intrigeerde me. Voordat ik haar werk zag, viel de naam al op. Wood + Man. Mijn eigen familienaam betekent ook "Wood". Het tweede woord "man" klinkt zelfs ironisch. 

Dan las ik haar verhaal. Ze is geboren in 1958 en gestorven in 1981. Dat betekent dat ze op 22 of 23 jarige leeftijd gestorven is. Haar jeugd speelde zich af in Colorado en Italië. Al sinds 1972 trok ze foto's van haar zelf. Vaak naakt. Een vriend vroeg haar ooit waarom ze foto's van haar naakte zelf nam, en toen zei ze laconiek dat zij altijd voorhanden was. 

(c) Francesca Woodman

In 1979 verhuisde ze naar New York en werkte as de assistent van een fotograaf en als een modefotografe. Op 19 januari 1981 pleegde ze zelfmoord. 

Haar werk bevat heel eel kleine vierkante zwart-wit foto's, videos en tekeningen. Haar iconografische beeltenis van de jonge vrouw worden vaak gezien als een esthetische voorspelling van haar zelfmoord. Maar SAMMLUNG VERBUND bewijst met hun laatste boek dat zij een gepassioneerde vrouw is. 

Terwijl wij langs haar afbeeldingen wandelden, dacht ik aan de film The Virgin Suicides van Sofia Coppola, dat over vier zusjes gaan die zich gevangen voelen in het huis, de religie van hun ouders en de maatschappij en daarom zich -zoals de titel al verraadt- het leven ontnemen. De foto's beelden dezelfde duistere drang naar vrijheid die ze nooit gaan krijgen. Ik was geïntegreerd door haar beeltenissen, vooral van het strand, zeker omdat ik zelf op zoek ben, of bezig ben, aan een script voor een kortfilm over twee zusters die elks een transitie in vrouwelijkheid ondergaan tijdens een strandvakantie. 

De film gaat ook over de jaren '70. Daarvoor - voor eeuwen- domineerden mannen het beeld van de kunstenaar en van de vrouw in de kunst. Vrouwen dienden alleen maar als model. In de nasleep van mei '68 begonnen vrouwen zoals Cindy Sherman en Hannah Wilke, VALIE EXPORT... het beeld van de vrouw in en door de kunst toe. Ze gebruikten geen schilderijen of beeldhouwwerk, dat nog steeds het domein van de man is, maar vertaalden hun boodschappen en verlangens in fotografie, videografie en theatrale voorstellingen. 

(c) Francesca Woodman

De tijd, de cyclus van leven en dood, de processen van veroudering en vernieuwing, begeesterde Woodman zo fel dat het in haar werk en leven een grote invloed had. Ze liet zich door de Griekse mythe van Apollo en Daphne inspireren en laat zich fotograferen waarbij ze omcirkeld wordt door boomwortels en berkenstam draagt. De mythe zelf gaat ook over transitie en spanningen van adolescentie en volwassenheid. Haar kunst kan dan ook gezien worden als haar zoektocht, haar leerproces, om verandering, verlies, het leven... zelf te aanvaarden. Een proces dat iedereen doorgaat. 

Zelfs de quote bij haar werk -het museum heeft bij elke artieste een persoonlijke quote gezet- past bij Francesca... en eerlijk gezegd voelde ik me daardoor nog meer met haar gebonden, omdat in mijn verhalen en kunst ook constant tijd, verlies en bomen terugkeren, als een cirkel. 

"I've a lot of ideas cooking, 

I simple need to get started working 

before they stick to the bottom of the pan." 

- Francesca Woodman

(c) Wendy Wuyts

Verboden Leugens over Jordanië

Gisteren nam ik deel aan een discussie over de "betrouwbaarheid" van jouw "talking heads" in jouw documentaire met enkele zeer ervaren producers, monteurs en regisseurs uit Denemarken, USA en België. Een van hen haalde de documentaire "Forbidden Lies" van Anna Broinowski aan. Deze documentaire gaat over de "hoax" van Norma Khouri, een Jordaans-Amerikaanse vrouw die het boek "Forbidden Love" heeft geschreven dat rond de periode van 9/11 (die van New York, niet die van Chili) is gepubliceerd. Het gaat over haar beste vriendin die tijdens een "honor killing" is vermoord, omdat ze een relatie heeft met een christelijke man. Norma schreef het boek om de aandacht van de internationale gemeenschap op "honor killings in the Arab world" te vestigen. Tijdens het maken van de documentaire geraakt de film maker in een heel netwerk van leugens. Norma lijkt de ene leugen over de andere leugen te leggen. In 2004 publiceerde een journalist bewijzen dat haar verhaal helemaal niet zou kloppen. Ook twee vrouwen uit Jordanië, onder wie een journalist die over vrouwenrechten in haar land schrijft, vinden meer dan 70 details in het boek die niet kunnen kloppen. Norma schrijft in haar boek dat de rivier door Amman, de hoofdstad van Jordanië, loopt, wat geografisch helemaal niet waar is.  Ook zijn er totaal niet zoveel "honor killings" in Jordanië als Norma beweert. De twee Jordaanse vrouwen voelen zich juist beledigd. Vele vrouwen dragen geen hoofddoek, worden niet begeleid door een mannelijk familielid en kunnen doen wat ze willen doen.

Ook al is het niet in de documentaire "Forbidden Lies" expliciet gezegd, maar de producer die deze documentaire ophaalde zei dat dit een mooi voorbeeld is van oriëntalisme en propaganda voor Westers terrorisme en de oorlog in Irak en Afghanistan. "Aangezien het Westen zoveel stereotypen heeft over de Arabische wereld, kwam dit verhaal geloofwaardig over. Zij gebruikte eigenlijk zelfs stereotypen, omdat ze het kan." Er is zelfs een complottheorie dat zij voor de FBI werkte met als opdracht om via media, een vals verhaal, het beeld van een land te doen kantelen naar een negatief daglicht zodat de hele oorlog in het Oosten meer verantwoord zou lijken.

Het doet me denken aan een opmerking van een kennis uit Iran die in België studeert. Wat haar het meest ergerde, waren Westerse feministen die haar vertelden dat zij en andere vrouwen het de Moslimwereld zouden moeten emanciperen.  Gertrude Bell, een Britse schrijfster, wereldreiziger, politica die leefde van 1868 tot 1923,  en die meehielp aan de verwestering van het Midden Oosten (we kijken allemaal uit naar de film "Queen of Desert" van Werner Herzog die in 2015 uitkomt), stichtte de Anti-Suffrage League, omdat ze vond dat een vrouw zelf moet kiezen wat ze wil, en dat niemand, ook geen zogenaamde feministen, een vrouw moet vertellen wat ze moet doen, zeker omdat we niet weten. In feite doet Norma wat vele vrouwen uit het Oosten stoort: outsiders die denken dat ze de waarheid weten, maar alleen de stereotypes zien...

The Mother of Haïti

Some years ago I met the talented photographer Betania Salvatore from Bariloche, Argentina, when I traveled in Guatemala. She came back from a project in Haïti and shared me this story:

An old mother used all her money to give her daughter a better life somewhere else. Every day she cried and prayed for her missing daughter. 
For years.
Betania heard from others that her daughter had died.
Nobody told the old mother. 

bron: http://500px.com/photo/36661544/untitled-by-betasalvatore
(c) Beta Salvatore, Haïti 2011

Bloedmooi Congo

In het Fotomuseum van Antwerpen bezochten een Deense vriend en een van mijn beste vriendinnen onder andere de tentoonstelling "The Enclave" van Richard Mosse. In een van mijn favoriete magazines was ik onmiddellijk aangetrokken door dit surreële landschapsfoto van Congo, waardoor ik besloot eindelijk eens dit museum te bezoeken.

Hij vond deze speciale techniek waarbij infrarood zichtbaar wordt, dat vroeger door militairen werd gebruikt om gecamoufleerde installaties terug te vinden, dat hij ideaal vond om de conflicten in het Oosten van Congo zichtbaar te maken dat bijna door de internationale media vergeten lijkt. 

De kleuren zorgen voor een andere werkelijkheid, een ander perspectief, tonen onzichtbare dingen... waardoor je wanneer je door de video installatie stapt alleen maar kan zwijgen en kijken. 

https://vimeo.com/67115692

De video installatie zelf is ook indrukwekkend, zeker door de opstelling van de verschillende schermen en de sound design. Ik zei nog tegen mijn vriendin dat Afrika ook aanvoelt als verschillende verhalen, verschillende beelden, die allemaal op je afkomen zodat je in een droom lijkt te voelen. Zowel de inhoud als de ervaring voelden heel herkenbaar aan...  en zij beaamde mijn opmerking. 

Ik weet zelf niet of ik de beelden mooi moet vinden. Misschien is "bloedmooi" wel de juiste beschrijving. Mosse gaat express voor een ervaring van schoonheid, lees ik in verschillende bronnen. "Schoonheid is immers het beste kanaal voor  een mens om te kunnen voelen. Het is het scherpste werktuig in de kist. Ze doen mensen zwijgen en luisteren. Wanneer je menselijk lijden mooi voorstelt - en soms is het dat ook- roept dat ethische vragen op bij de kijker. Het maakt hen verward, boos, ontredderd. En dat is fantastisch, want je wil jouw publiek juist doen nadenken over hoe beelden gemaakt en geconsumeerd worden. "

Joden en Arabieren Weigeren om Vijanden te Zijn

Wat mij het meeste pijn doet, nog meer dan #Gazaunderattack of #Israelunderfire is alle haat die over beide volkeren verspreid wordt. Vele mensen kiezen op het web een zijde, terwijl ze niets weten over Gaza of Israel. Ik reageerde al op een commentaar van iemand die wou dat Hitler in de Holocaust geslaagd was, want ook al kies ik geen zijde, ik kan niet tegen generalisatie en verspreiding van meer haat, en zeker als die twee vervat zijn. Israel is niet hetzelfde als elke mens in Israel. Israel in de media betekent de overheid van Israel, en vooral de mensen die de touwtjes in handen hebben, zelfs buiten de regering van Israel. Niet alle Joden zijn hetzelfde. Generalisatie en dualiteit zijn twee van de grootste vergiffen in een maatschappij waarvan mensen bang zijn voor het onbekende.  Een vriendin uit Israel liet me weten dat ze ook niets weet over de Gaza en ook hoopt dat het conflict snel gebeurt. 

Gisteren las ik in de krant dat op de sociale media een spontane actie is losgebarsten waarbij Arabieren en Joden op een foto poseren met de hashtag #JewsandArabsRefuseToBeEnemies. 

Ik heb onmiddellijk een foto en de hashtag op mijn Facebook en twitter gedeeld,
want in tegenstelling tot alle propaganda die over de hele wereld wordt gestuurd, kan dit wel iets veranderen, want liefde, vriendschap, loskoppeling van wraak, angst en materialisme en empathie zijn in mijn ogen de enige manieren om aan conflicten een einde te maken. 

Travumentary: to inspire, not to educate

A friend and I left Belgium for 2 weeks to explore Israel, a place which inspires many people, looking for answers, and also ended up in Jordan, totally not planned.

I documented this travel, not to tell a story, or to give the answers I found, just to let people feel my experience, because visuals can say more than billion words. It is also an invitation to find your own story or answers.

Documentaries record events, facts... with the purpose to educate people. Travel promo films have the  purpose to make from people tourists, while I don't want people to be tourists, and look at cultures and countries as a far-from-their-bed-show. I also don't want to force a belief, or some facts... on people, because I think every person can educate himself. There is some freedom in real education.
So... I made the concept of Travumentary.

I wouldn't call this a documentary, or a promo film about Israel (and Jordan), but rather a TRAVUmentary: documenting a travel experience, to inspire people to travel more
... because traveling is exposure, and exposure is education, and education creates chances.

Here is a first version of my travumentary about Israel (and a bit about Jordan):

Watch here "Sunset in the Middle East"

Divine Images

“What would have happened if the aesthetic standard of our society had belonged to the collective unconscious of the great artists of the past?” the Italian artist Anna Utopia Giordano wondered. 
She took famous classic nude beauties of art history, and photoshopped them, like these pictures were going to used for advertisements of covers you'll find nowadays. There are standards in the world, accepted, about female beauty. These standards weaken the woman a lot, because it makes a difference between women. You cannot be beautiful if you attain these standards. Is it healthy? Is it possible for every women to become like the photoshopped ideal? 

It is kind of interesting to know how standards can poison the self-esteem of many women. I don't want to describe myself as the ideal or perfect woman, in all my Belgian modesty, but... sometimes I wonder why not. I look more to the left woman than the right. In some periods I would be the muse of many artists. Do I just have bad luck I am born in the wrong period? 

Since childhood I look to much into the mirror, trying to change myself, my body, in something else, something others want to see. I did a lot of sports. I had a period I ate only fruits for breakfast. And I lost weight... but still, even I had a more healthy BMI than ever, got a good physical condition, I thought I was too fat. The Romans had this expression: Mens Sana in Corpore sano. A healthy mind in a healthy body. It can go both ways. Even if you have a healthy body, a beautiful body, you still can feel miserable, and weak, and ugly, because the mind is tricked. It is maybe weak to let my mind trick me, but if you already as child are brainwashed by all the stereotypes of beauty you see on magazines, television, films... you wonder why so many women are feeling bad, and ask their husband -as in this famous cliché- or their ass looks to fat in this dress. 

Two years ago I went to Thailand, in a period when I I felt bad about my own body, my relationships, or the lack of relationships... also partly because I got recently dumped by a guy which I thought was going to be someone more. I went to Koh Phangan, and decided to take yoga, because "yoga people all look so happy, and ... he... maybe this can help me to make me stronger and happy, you know".  
I promised myself to subscribe for the closest yoga center in my neighbourhood. When I came back from the 7/11, with my bags full of groceries, I bumped into a notice board of a yoga school. I came closer, and my mouth felt open... when I discovered it was a tantric yoga center, and ... more... they were going to give a tantric sex workshop of a week about 2 days. I hesitated in these 2 days, because... is this not bad for a Catholic prude girl like me... but on the other hand... nobody knows me. So, in the last moment, I went to the yoga school and attended the lectures and yoga classes. Don't expect stories which would even blush Samantha from Sex and the City. It was more innocent. One of my big eye-openers was the quote of the lecturer that many women forget to really watch to classic paintings where goddesses, the ultimate beautiful women, are portrayed. Aphrodite, Venus... are not models with size 0, no, they have curves, and love-fat. They are mothers of Eros,  and still thousands of men, from beggars via artists to kings, worship them, because... this woman is a goddess, and knows everything about love, her fertility, desires... and uses what she has to gets what she wants, and Aphrodite, if you know your Greek myths, she mostly gets what she wants. 
Real beauty cannot be captured by physical features, because they change according to the standards made by time and culture, but real raw beauty you can find in any woman who founds divinity in who she is, and knows how to use it. 

So... for me both paintings, the one with the more curvy woman, or the more slender lady, are both beautiful, in a different way divine. 

source inspiration: Flavorwire 
source pictures: Anna Utopia Giordano  

Reizen is een manier van leven, niet van ontsnappen

When I was doing my world travel, a friend wrote me at some point that I had to take care that I wouldn't fall in a depression from the moment I would return to Belgium, because "I seem too happy" in all my pictures and notes, and she and other people were worried I was escaping the real life. After a whole day walking in Valparaiso, I wrote this note on my facebook, to make clear that traveling is not escaping, but a way of living... and I looked up this status, because I feel it fits the blogs I wrote about Israel.

The Religion of Traveling, pt 1 : Opinions and Stories

My first kiss happened to me when I was 17 . My first car accident, when I was almost 20. My first encounter with Israeli happened when I was 22. One of my friends, her brother and I were on an Caribbean island, owned by Honduras, for some diving courses. My instructor, who convinced me to go over my fear for drowning by diving beneath the surface of the big ocean, was from this nation. He had big grey eyes, I kept on focusing, when I took my first steps (sorry for the word) in Waterworld. On this pirate island we met also other Israeli, and spent some time with them. They were cool young people, with a weird accent, not the military people you see on the television around 7pm, or the dark people with curly hair, big black hats and coats, and all looking pale and selling diamonds in some neighbourhood in Antwerp. They looked like us. In many different meanings. One of the best quotes, an Israeli told me, is that when you sit with 7 israeli's on one table, you will have 70 different opinions.

I'll come later back on this quote. First...

Opinions.

The evening before I sit here, in the Starbucks of the Brussels Airport, enjoying my hot chocolate (I love my Belgian sweets), I was interviewed by a Master student, doing a research about female solo travelers. One of the questions she asked, was how traveling had changed me. After talking a lot, and thinking -also, yes- I realized I got less strong opinions. When I was 18 year old, just in university, I told everyone I was left-winged, loved Che Guevara, believed in communism... while I didn't know so much about it. You got confronted, during your life, with opinions, and the arguments behind it, with stories and life experiences... and then what I learnt, after hearing stories, reading, getting in discussions... is that I rather don't want to have an opinion. People say you're not strong if you don't have an opinion, but sometimes, in a world, where everybody is so free to share it everywhere on the social media what he thinks... I prefer not to have an opinion in everything, and just listen, and learn. I told the researcher I started to see the world from black-white to a more grey spectrum.

Even several weeks ago, in the mountains of Bulgaria, one of my close friends and I had a discussion about Israel and Palestina. She had an opinion. I didn't. I didn't know enough to have an opinion, certainly not about a place where I only heard and read stories, and even if I would go there, live there... I don't think I will ever know enough to have an opinion. I just am against the fact that innocents die on both sides, so I am rather against war than against a policy or a country. If you choose a side, you bond, yes, with all the others, on this side, against the other side, but if you're in the middle, maybe you're the biggest fool, yes, or maybe the bravest soul. I don't know. I don't want to call myself brave. What do you think ? I feel it is better if people rather don't have an opinion and spread it through the whole world, and give us more silence... but... not having an opinion doesn't have you don't know your values. Not to have an opinion opens space to listen, find more knowledge and stories... be as openminded as possible, and there where there are open minded people, you'll find tolerance. Or that is what I feel.

So, now, this close friend and I will embark on a journey, where we want to learn (more) about the conflict between Palestina and Israel, explore why Jerusalem is so important for three world religions, the culture of both entities, the food !, the nature, the geography, the water management of Israel, which is apparently the best in the world, and take my lessons back to Belgium, not necessarily to have strong arguments to build an opinion, but to bring back stories, pictures, film footage... to open dialogue for everyone interested.

And yes... religion will be a big topic in the blogs of next two weeks.

Did I already tell you that I hate flying ? It is ironic. I fly so much (I know this doesn't help nature and the climate so much), and still I cross my fingers, like I am going to pray, every moment the plane leaves the ground. I don't call myself religious. I am baptised as Christian, and did some Christian ceremonies, even today, on All Saint's I went to the graveyard, to put flowers on the grave of my grandfather. Still... I believe in something, and know the power of believing very well, but I don't believe in one Almighty person, I believe in the world, human and nature, and a future where they will find harmony. This belief keeps me going. Still... I am interested to learn more about other beliefs. There is some power in it, and if you want to understand power, you've to understand the roots. I like to be think in metaphors of trees, yes.

Whatever...

... first I need to enjoy this little piece of Belgium in my cup, and continue listening The Crystal Fighters. I love the song « Follow ». It suits the theme of choosing a side, yes, so worth to mention it. Besides this, this is just a great song of an amazing group. And yes... wait for my travel buddy. She seems to be a bit too late... hmm...  

The Secret of Sinterklaas

These days one of Belgium's most (fictional) figures is enduring a crisis. According to the UN, this custom of the Netherlands and Belgium is racist, because the servant of the old white man, the Dutch version of Santa Claus, has a black servant. Human Rights bodies say this custom is like promoting slavery. (Source: Telegraph) 

A very old picture of me and the holy man

As a Belgian person I have to give my story about Sinterklaas. This figure is an important man in the life of many children. Every morning of 6th of December (in Netherlands: 5th of December) until I was 11 years old, I woke up very excited, and ran downstairs to see the presents the holy man left behind, in change for the sugar, carrots and drawing I left in my shoe the evening before. We believed he came from Spain, by boat, and in Antwerp, every year, there is a big celebration in November, where Sinterklaas and all his servants arrive in the port. There are dozens of candies and oranges. He has a big book, which he brought to all big shopping malls, club parties, and read who was good, and who was bad. I am not good in remembering lyrics, but as child, and still, 14 years later, I can sing all the songs about this man, his boat and home country.

Of course there were the black servants. We called them "Zwarte Piet", which you can translate as "Black Pete". I was scared for them, because all "bad children" disappeared in their bags. I was a good child, but my younger brother and I had often small fights (as many brothers and sisters do), so my small child heart was always drumming against my chest, when Sinterklaas read all the names of the good kids. You never know.

For me, this whole custom has nothing to do with racism. Interested in mythology and witchcraft as teenager, I looked up the story behind Sinterklaas, and read a lot about his origins. The first thing I learnt, is not about his origins, but about his offspring: the American Santa Claus is a derivation of Sinterklaas. The Dutch brought their custom to New Amsterdam, future New York, and later Coca Cola used this figure to promote their drinks.

Ice berg model of culture, Hall (1976)

Sinterklaas itself comes from the old shamans, roles in society which existed before Christianity entered Western-Europe. Shamans were the mysterious figures, who were in touch with nature, and cured people. Sinterklaas is some old, dark figure, from ancient dark times. You can compare him with Pan, the Greek god with the horns. The Church tried to ban all pagan elements from society in the Medieval Times, so they "christianized" everything. They split the celebration of the shaman, in two figures: his bright, sacred side became a saint from Spain, and his dark, nature, passionated side became the dark Black Pete.
Sinterklaas is white, Black Pete is black. They cannot exist without each other, like yin cannot exist without yang. For me, they represent control and impulsive nature of people

Before you ban culture, or habits, because in the surface they look bad, you've to dive beneath the surface of the iceberg. Culture is like an iceberg, like Professor Hall described in his model. We are not racist. Black has many meanings. It also means passion, darkness, nature, the shadows of our soul...  Black Pete takes "bad chidlren" with them, but maybe "bad children" are more connected with nature than most children are. In these songs, bad is a word defined by the Church. Maybe my heart was not drumming so hard, because it was scared, but because it was excited to learn more what is hidden in the bag of Black Pete.
Like Alice fell in the rabbit hole.

I also wrote an article for EGEA about the Ice Berg Analogy of EGEA, which you can read here (2012):  
Beneath the Surface of the Iceberg

"She Who Tells a Story"

“I was raised with people trying to tell me what to do and think,” said Newsha Tavakolian, who shoots for The New York Times from Iran. “Now I want those looking at my work to have their own opinions. I don’t want to enforce any ideas or views upon them. They are free.”

source of inspiration:  A Show of Strenght by Middle Eastern Women Photographers

"Don't forget this is Not for You (for Sahar Letfi)", 2011
exhibition in Boston,  August 27, 2013 - January 12, 2014

The phrase “She Who Tells a Story” comes from the word rawiya (...). But the exhibit doesn’t tell one story; it tells many. (...) Ms. Tavakolian said that while the exhibit cannot really not change anything about the current situation in Egypt or elsewhere in the region, what it could do is help “provide people with the opportunity to see some different perspectives from the region.”

Please, if you would have the opportunity to visit this exhibition, tell me about it, and if these women really challenge the stereotypes in their region, and tell the different stories, could frame the complex identities in their region. Dank u wel :). Let me now rewrite a short story, I wrote for a film project, but let it us put in another context... 
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White on Paper (retold)

Thousands spirals huddled together. Colors danced and mingled over the entire surface.  In this all, she wandered in this insane play of her mind, a young woman, her skin so brown as the heart of ancient trees, her hair as black as the lonely nights without the caress of the moon, and her eyes as dark as still, but deep waters. In this world she could be as free as she wanted. There were no limitations, no expectations... She could be everyone. She could be a queen. Yes, a beautiful, shining, colorful queen, without any scars, without any ropes, without any fear. An artist. In her hands, an old camera, the one she saw using a tourist, appears. In front of her, a corridor, blinding her eyes with a giant light, appeared, and she decided to meet the source of the light. Something in her mind said this would be a great frame for a movie, or a photograph: her feminine silhouette in the backlight.
There was a man waiting for her. He was not like the men in her village. He was tall, taller than any guy, and his skin was so white as the milk her grandmother's goats produced. He reminded her to this tourist of an Iceland, which visited her village some weeks ago, the same tourist with the same camera in her hands. In the memory he had given her only one glance, which freezed time. She didn't know this stranger. Her mother noticed the short interaction, and had her pulled away, from "this strange behavior". But... now she met him again, in his land of ice and snow. He was the opposite of everything what the desert around, in, under her village was promising her. This time she took pictures of him, expressing her feelings, expressing her desires, expressing who she really is...
until the dream ended.

In the real world, her hairs were covered by the rusari, when she walked through alleys which smell like goat piss and the other perfumes of poverty. Her father allows her to take pictures, which he sells in the capital as postcards to tourists. Her father says she has "an eye", not because he knows something about exposure, the golden mean... but the dodgy publisher for who he works, says it. Her father, who worked as tea maker for a publisher, who had found one day some pictures in his wallet. Nobody, in that company, wonder what the boss was looking for in this wallet. Money shuts mouths. He asked who took these pictures, and her father, who has a talent for knowing what people want to hear, said he took these pictures. Since then her father is tea maker, photographer and also, as second job outside the publisher, vendor of photographs he cannot sell to the paper. She knew this. She could work as photographer, in Iran, if she wanted, but not now... she is a clever girl. Her talent is to know what people don't want to hear. She tells herself she just waits for a moment, when everything will be ok, when her dreams full of colors, and the white papers of the books of her father's boss will mingle.

But this tourist changed everything...

He appeared more often in her dreams. She was almost afraid to fell asleep, because she didn't want to hear her family hear her moaning. 16 year old girls shouldn't have desires...   One morning, when her youngest sister and she were doing the dishes in a bucket outside, her sister confirmed her biggest fear. "Why are you making so weird noises? What do you dream about?"
"I dream about... camels... that I am a camel."
Her younger sister start laughing. "You're so weird."
Weird is better than naughty.
Still, anxious, she took her grandfather's camera, and went into the desert, to calm down there.
Landscapes, impressions...  got an eternal print, but couldn't brand away the image in her mind, of this tall, white man. She stopped, in the middle of nothing.
She raised her hands, and by both her thumb and forefinger of each hand, she made a frame, looking for a picture that would make her happy ... that would set her thoughts free ...
... and he appeared in the frame.
Her arms fell.
Stunned, she stared at the tourist. This is impossible. So... God still exists in this reality? It has to be... because only He could have brought him. This is a sign. These time the glance was longer, long enough to invite her to come. Slowly, she went to him, and although he didn't smile, she came closer and closer, and stopped one meter for him, impressed by his appearance. His eyes are so blue... as ice... She never had seen ice, only in the magazines her father brought home. What happens now? She wants to touch him, and then he also raises his hand, to touch her fingers, but exactly at the moment when her hand palm was going to feel his finger tops, he disappeared in a fata morgana. Afraid - fear for loosing it- she swirl around like a jinn. Where is he? Then she stopped, and understood something every woman one day will realise. Who do I really miss? 
She looked in the sun, not afraid to burn her eyes, and then tried to capture every color of this light with her camera. When her film roll was finished, she sighed. It was just all a dream...

Her father noticed that his daughter looked more sad than she usual was, but he didn't ask her why. Something in him wanted to ask her, hug her, take off this rusari from her head and kiss her black hairs, but there were other men, not so far from them, so he followed her via the door into his own small kingdom, where his queen carries the real scepter.

Three days later, her father faced two upset guys. One of them always developed his film rolls, the other was his boss. They did not understand the reason of the subject, lying on the table between them. The father was so chocked that his talent did not connect with his mouth. Possessed by anger, maybe fear, he took the pictures, and went home, to find his eldest daughter. She was cleaning the windows, and wanted to greet him with a smile, but the devil's laugh in his eye made her freeze. He pulled her inside, and threw the pictures in her face. "What is this?"
Trembling, confused, she took the pictures, and then she saw the most unbelievable. It is magic. 
Then a smile appeared, for a very first time on her dry lips, and she looked up.
"This is who I really am."
Her deepest desire was translated on white paper.
Her story of longing. Her identity. Her search for freedom...
Her dumb and forefinger did not hold pictures showing the sun, but showing him.
Her dreams, full of colors, really mingled with the white paper.
There was hope...
if there is magic in the world. 

Norwegian Wood

After an amazing week in Trollheimen, Norway I was at the border between reality and daydreams, while quick images of mountainous landscapes, the sparkling lakes and the wood of this Scandinavian country print in my mind. The train from Oppdal to Oslo took some hours, and instead of reading a book, I flipped through my memories...

Memory of the trekking in Norway, thanks to EGEA Trondheim

...until an old American couple came to the four seats, and I had to make place so they could sit. They answered me in an accent, which sounded North-American. I asked them if they were from Canada. 

"We're from the United States."

I smiled: sometimes people from the US forget America is a continent, and not a country. People from Mexico, Canada... don't like people use the word America if they only talk about US. 

They were from New York, and we started to talk about this city. I have been there. The woman decided to take a look where Edward was. After she left, her husband told me -on a softer tone- that they met a young man, who they met in Alesund, and had seen back on the platform of this train, after another week of division. "He is an handsome guy, who will study economics in Colombia University. He is called Edward the Fourth." I frowned my eyebrows. I only thought kings got a number. "I recommend you to marry him..."

Americans... I mean... US citizens... they are always so helpful. I didn't know this man well enough to know he was joking or not, but I smiled. The woman came back, with the announcement that Edward (the 4th) did find a place on the train, although it is known that you've to book train tickets in Norway in some advance. 

We started to talk about Norway, and from this country our stories started to travel over whole the world. 

The woman asked me if I planned every travel.

"Sometimes, in the beginning, yes, I had a plan, but then... you meet people, you get inspired, and whole your planned future changes. How is this expression? When you plan something, life happens?"

"I love this about life," the older woman replied, "Isn't it great that you always have the chance to change from route?"

"Exactly," I said, "but I guess sometimes friends don't like me always making new and other plans. Things just happen, and things don't go as planned..."

"Did travel change you?" the woman asked curiously. 

"I don't know. Some people say I did. Some people say I am just the same. I sometimes make still the same mistakes. I don't know. You are always your own company, and then you don't notice change so easily as people who only meet you once in a while."

"When we lived in Japan, I experienced so much, learnt so much... I totally become someone else," the woman said. Before she could give a further explanation, Edward IV appeared on stage. He didn't wear a crown... by the way.  

The old couple invited us for a beer, which is really a nice offer, if you know the prices of alcohol in Norway, and there she told more about Japan. 

"You know, there are people, writing blogs, telling that they know Japan after they have been there for two weeks. They mention geisha, shinto, sushi... in their story. I lived for more than 7 years in Japan, and trust me, after all these years I still don't understand the real Japan. Real Japanese people are afraid. They don't look in the eyes of strangers. Forget they will talk with strangers. The Japanese people who talk with you, are excluded by the real Japanese..."

"Aren't they also Japanese people?" Edward IV remarked. "I mean... since when are you a real Japanese? Since when is someone a real American?" Someone doesn't know America is a continent... but I thought he made a good remark. 

The woman smiled. "That is the point... Can you say that you know a country, or even a person, even if you know it, him or her for years? I don't think even Japanese people can really describe their country. They say there whole culture is based on shinto, but there aren't writings about this belief, this philosophy, in contrary of the islam, which has the Koran, or the Christians, who have the Bible."

She made a good point. We talked even later that sometimes stories change in history, just because memories fade away, or get another shape, because of the context of time, or just because minds filter a lot of information. Sometimes I wonder if I could describe myself perfect, because I already lost so many memories. I guess also some other people will see me differently than others. Is this the same about a country, a culture, other persons... ? Which story is then true? If my best friend talks about me, it will be even true, as I'll tell something about me. She wasn't in my presence for 24/24,7/7, but I also filter information conscious and unconscious. Look at facebook. It is so easy for me to show only the information I want other people to know, so they perceive me as the person I want. Is it possible to know everything?

I don't think so... but you can be critical, and realize that one perception is not enough.

Japan is also not only geisha's, shinto and sushi. 

Norway is also not only mountainous landscapes, sparkling lakes and wood .

ps I didn't marry (prince) Edward IV in the end of this fairytale ;). 

Just a thought...

I ended once -by accident- in a slum in Accra, Ghana, 
and people were so friendly to show me and other volunteers around. 
They showed me their house.
I was so surprised to see that there was nothing inside. Only a bed. 
No table, or books, or decoration, no paint, no chairs, nothing...
I thought they were poor...
... and I wondered why they don't give these depressive walls some color, to bring sunshine in their life. So... I remarked that "there is not so much to see here..;"
They told us they are not like Westerns decorating their houses with as much as stuff they can buy, because Western people live inside, isolated from each other, 
but these people live outside, in a community. 
They do not need to decorate the inside. Whole their life happens outside.
Their fridge was outside, and was shared by all of the people in that "street" there, 
to keep the soft drinks cold.

Jamestown, Accra, Ghana 2009.
After reading about it, I proposed other volunteers to go there.
I expected to arrive on a idyllic beach, but it was a fisher's town/slum. 

Introduction

Some years ago I went to Ghana. I was 19, 20... and a bit more naive than I am at the moment. I wanted to explore Ghana, and I found an organization which organizes volunteering work, and decided to combine my wish for adventure with a cause, so I would go there "with a reason".

Ghana was promoted as Africa for beginners, because the people are very friendly, it is a bit more developed (or at least the capital) than most African countries, they speak English... Why I wanted to go to Ghana, is another story that would distract too much the message. Helping people was just a result, to cover the real reasons.

When I arrived in Accra, the capital of Ghana, I was really... shocked. Although I wouldn't call myself a racist, I expected slums, poor people without legs, garbage everywhere, crazy traffic, wild jungle with big trees, human-eating snakes and almost naked people... but I saw big boulevards, people in suits, big buildings...
Later, on that journey, I noticed garbage, poverty... I don't want to deny it, but I still remember how... disappointed I was, holding my cheap camera, and hoping to catch pictures of typical Africa I later could show to whole the world. Later, on that travel, I was embarrassed that African people could talk me under table (* I don't know if this is an English expression). Mother Africa taught me a lot.

Education can be simple. Pre-school where I volunteered, Agona Swedru, Ghana 2009

But... when I came back home, I told people what they expected to hear. I told them about the high toll of deaths in road accidents, about the trotro's, the vans where they try to use every square centimeter by putting as much as possible people it, and the poverty in the slums...
... I didn't tell about the development which was already present. I kept stories hidden. Why? I didn't do it on purpose. Only after talking with other people who went to Africa, following subjects at university like "Development coordination" and "problems of countries in development" by professor Develtere , as part of my study in Geography, maybe by meeting other Africans, by traveling more, and by reading more, even about mythology... I started to become more critical. Which stories, theories... are the right, or are they all right?

One day one of my good friends in Belgium let me watch the TED-speech by Chimamanda Adichie, a novelist from Nigeria, called "The Danger of a Single Story". In this video Adichie warns that if we hear only a single story about another person or country, we risk a misunderstanding. When she told how the media always use the same stereotypes, or "single story" to portray Africa, I time-traveled to that 19-20 year old version of me, who was disappointed that she couldn't take photographs of poor almost naked Africans. I realised  how I was trapped by the media, and worse... that I had seen other "stories" about Africa, and didn't share.

I was not better than all these people who use stereotypes to deny people from a certain country, culture, gender... give a job, an opportunity, because sometimes "these discriminating people" don't know better. I had the tool, namely a simple story, even more simple stories, to tell my environment, but I didn't. In the last months... I realize more and more that I want to tell stories about amazing people, share my experiences in the different cultures, which are not reported, or not told enough... and use media, not as a tool to simplify the truth, but to show the whole, the complexity of the truth... to make more people critical... so more misunderstandings can be avoided. Let us tell stories... to break stereotypes... to break taboos...

... so we can create chances.

A street in Accra, Ghana 2009. People don't look that poor... in this picture.
This is also not the best street. There are streets with really high buildings.

I'll write stories, and I'll do it in English. It is not my mother tongue, but it is my second language, and more important a language which a lot of people in the world can understand. There will be a lot of mistakes, and I am welcome for constructive feedback, or native speaking people who want to correct my English. I also decided to tell stories about heroines, rather than heroes, because I am a woman, but also because I feel they are underrepresented in the world. That is why I call this blog "short stories from the moon", referring to the woman, but also making clear they are different.

I know I'll always offend people, but please also share your opinion, if the story gives you negative thoughts. I love to learn.

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The danger of a Single Story
Chimamanda Adichie

TEDGlobal, July 2009, Oxford, UK, duration: 18:49
http://blog.ted.com/2009/10/07/the_danger_of_a/