Across Women's Lives: Recent Episodes
PRI
Last September, gynecologist Isabel Stabile stood outside the Maltese Parliament with a group of activists on International Safe Abortion Day, holding signs that said: “Abortions are safe and necessary” and “My body is not a political playground.”
As they livestreamed the protest on Facebook, some activists took out a box of fake abortion pills and swallowed them.
“Malta is the only country in the whole of Europe where abortion is still illegal, under all circumstances."
Isabel Stabile, abortion rights activist, Doctors for Choice, Malta
“Malta is the only country in the whole of Europe where abortion is still illegal, under all circumstances,” said Stabile, as the camera zoomed in on her. “We are here to show you how easy and simple this process can be.”
The protest was small — and later met by a bigger crowd from anti-abortion protestors — but it signals a growing abortion rights movement in the small, predominantly Catholic island of Malta in the Mediterranean, where more than 90% of the population are against abortion, on religious grounds.
Related: Catalonia's temporary tele-abortion services are a game-changer
Unlike Poland, where abortion is difficult to access, but still legal in cases of rape and incest, the abortion law in Malta doesn’t make any exceptions — even when the mother’s health is at risk.
As a result, an estimated 300 pregnant people travel abroad every year to seek abortion services in places like the United Kingdom and Italy, but when the COVID-19 pandemic hit in March of 2020, travel restrictions made such trips nearly impossible.
Stabile, who is part of the advocacy group Doctors for Choice, said that’s when calls to the organization shot up significantly.
“What happened at that point is that women became desperate,” Stabile said. “And it pushed us as pro-choice doctors to set up a service.”
The Family Planning Advisory Service (FPAS) was launched last August, and is run by trained volunteers providing medically-based information about reproductive health care — fertility, contraception or abortion.
Under Malta’s abortion law, doctors can face up to three years in prison for providing abortion services, so FPAS volunteers figured out a work-around: They inform callers of the travel restrictions for countries where abortion is legal and tell them about reliable nongovernmental organizations that ship abortion pills — although it is illegal to consume them on Maltese soil.
Related: In Italy, religious organizations' 'fetus graves' reignite abortion debates
“We have effectively created a telemedicine service. ... People are now no longer needing to travel as often.”
Isabel Stabile, abortion rights activist, Doctors for Choice, Malta
“We have effectively created a telemedicine service,” Stabile said. “People are now no longer needing to travel as often.”
Stabile said that within the first six months of launching, FPAS received more than 200 calls — in a country with a population of less than 500,000 people. What’s more, the number of abortion pills ordered online from organizations like Women on Web and Women Help Women doubled from 2019 to 2020.
But taking the abortion pills Mifepristone and Misoprostol is only considered safe up until the 12th week of pregnancy. For people needing an abortion past 12 weeks, including those who have found out about a fetus abnormality, taking a pill is no longer a possibility.
For people who are more than 12 weeks pregnant, taking a pill is no longer a possibility, which often applies to pregnancies with fetal abnormalities, as well.
Mara Clarke, from the Abortion Support Network, said those are the people who continue to travel for abortions — despite the pandemic. Clarke’s organization helps fund pregnant people’s trips to the UK from countries where abortion is illegal or severely restricted.
“At the beginning of the pandemic, we really didn’t know what was going on,” Clarke said. “They were closing airports, we would book flights and they would get canceled, people were scared about traveling.”
There were nonstop hurdles: border closures, shut hotels, no child care. It was especially hard for Maltese people, who live on an island and are geographically isolated.
Related: Abortion increasingly hard to access in Turkey
Nowadays, Clarke said, traveling is somewhat easier, but mandatory PCR tests make it more expensive and constantly changing measures make it more difficult.
“Prior to COVID, the Draconian abortion laws were an inconvenience for women and pregnant people with money, and they were only a catastrophe for people without money or resources or support networks."
Mara Clarke, Abortion Support Network
“Prior to COVID, the Draconian abortion laws were an inconvenience for women and pregnant people with money, and they were only a catastrophe for people without money or resources or support networks,” Clarke said.
“But suddenly, you have a global pandemic, and literally everybody understands what it means to live in a country with really a bad abortion law.”
According to the UK’s National Health Service, the number of Maltese people who traveled there for abortions decreased by two-thirds from 2019, when 58 abortions were registered, to 2020, when 20 abortions were registered.
As part of an ongoing collaboration, Clarke is now funding a helpline at Malta’s Family Planning Advisory Service.
Dr. Christopher Barbara, another member of Doctors for Choice, said the goal of FPAS is to fill the void left by the lack of a government-established family planning programs.
“We feel that people have a right to that information because, if nothing else, it’s a harm-reduction exercise."
Dr. Christopher Barbara, Doctors for Choice, Malta
“We feel that people have a right to that information because, if nothing else, it’s a harm-reduction exercise,” said Barbara. “If a woman can’t get the abortion pill safely, she’ll just end up getting them from unverified sources.”
To this day, no major political party in Malta has come out in favor of abortion rights — but some individual politicians are starting to speak up.
This May, one parliament member introduced a bill to decriminalize abortion, though it didn’t pass. President George Vella later responded to this move, saying he’d rather resign than sign a law that “involves the authorization of murder.”
Abortion is still very much taboo in Malta — and abortion rights activists who speak publicly about it often face online harassment from anti-abortion groups.
But Barbara said public discourse is starting to shift — websites like Break the Taboo, which tell the stories of people in Malta who had an abortion, are hoping to destigmatize the topic.
And Barbara said it’s working. In 2016, the morning-after pill was legalized, and in 2018, the first abortion rights group in Malta was founded.
Since then, similar organizations have emerged and local media are increasingly covering the abortion debate.
“People are starting to realize that you can personally be against abortion, but at the same time, an abortion ban is not the right way to go,” Barbara said.
This story was produced in partnership with the International Women’s Media Foundation.
A black and pink Ferrari coils and loops around the Mugello Circuit, just outside Florence, and guns across the finish line at 170 miles per hour. The roar of its engine echoes throughout the Tuscan countryside.
This sleek ride isn’t your typical commercial sports car, it’s a Ferrari 488 GTE — a hyper-tuned machine built for endurance racing, with a cockpit made of carbon fiber and rebar steel.
Steering behind a wheel full of buttons is 27-year-old Michelle Gatting, an ambitious pilot from Denmark.
Related: In Spain after lockdown, soccer resumes for men — but not for women
Gatting started riding go-karts at the age of 7. Today, she is the youngest member of the Iron Dames, an all-female professional racing team that competes in Grand Touring endurance racing, or GT.
“An Iron Dame is a determined, strong-willed woman who has strong goals in her life. ...and who is really passionate about what she’s doing.”
Michelle Gatting, 27, Iron Dame pilot
“An Iron Dame is a determined, strong-willed woman who has strong goals in her life,” Gatting said. “And who is really passionate about what she’s doing.”
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Close up of an Iron Dames race car.
Credit:
Courtesy of Iron Dames
The Iron Dames is one of just three all-female teams in the world thatcompetes head-to-head with men.
The International Federation of the Automobile (FIA), the global governing body for motor racing, has praised them as a “sign of progress” in this male-dominated sport. Far from a marketing gimmick, the Iron Dames have already qualified for big-name races, and are hoping to change the perception of women in the sport.
Related: Women's pro soccer made gains toward parity. Will coronavirus undo it?
“We fight, we want to win, we want to go for the podiums. ... And when you do that, and you get [to] those podiums, people they don't question anymore why you're there."
Michelle Gatting, 27, Iron Dame pilot
“We fight, we want to win, we want to go for the podiums,” said Gatting, referring to where winners stand to receive first, second or third place. “And when you do that, and you get [to] those podiums, people they don't question anymore why you're there,” she said.
Michelle Gatting sits behind the wheel of her race car.
Credit:
Angelica Marin/The World
GT endurance racing is like marathon running — but for sports cars. Teams of pilots speed around twisty circuits for hours at a time, while racking up an insane amount of laps — sometimes up to 2,000 miles, depending on the race.
In 2019, the Iron Dames became the first ever, all-female lineup to begin and finish the legendary 24-hour of Le Mans —the mother of all endurance races. Teams of pilots take turns driving one car for a full day and a full night. They pause only for seconds at a time to switch tires or pilots.
Last year they finished in the top 10 at Le Mans. This year, reaching the podium — in the top three — would be the ultimate game changer.
“That would be fantastic, a dream come true,” said Deborah Mayer, Iron Dames’ founder and leader.
Mayer, a French financier, entrepreneur and pilot, founded the Iron Dames in 2018 to promote women in motor sports. “And to give the possibility to talented women to show all their capacities and skills in a quite competitive environment,” said Mayer.
As a long-time Ferrari collector, Mayer caught the speed bug racing in Ferrari tournaments. Now, she is betting big to take the Iron Dames to the top.
Motor sports is one of very few sports where the athlete’s sex doesn’t matter, said Mayer. At the end of the race, what separates a good pilot from the rest is strictly the lap time.
“It’s not a question of strength…it’s skills, it's hard work…you have to improve and work on your technique. ... You have to have the right strategy, and, above all, you have to work as a team."
Deborah Mayer, Iron Dames leader
“It’s not a question of strength…it’s skills, it's hard work…you have to improve and work on your technique,” said Mayer. “You have to have the right strategy, and, above all, you have to work as a team,” she said.
Iron Dames pose for a portrait at Mugello.
Credit:
Angelica Marin/The World
Mayer describes teamwork as “working at it, till the mayonnaise thickens.” Professional racing teams require million-dollar cars and a traveling crew of coaches, mechanics, engineers, and other staff working up to 24 hours at a time with the pilots.
Together with Mayer and Gatting, Manuela Gostner from Italy, and Rahel Frey from Switzerland, make up the original Iron Dames team.
This year, British pilot Katherine Legge also joined the all-female line-up.
Legge has done it all: NASCAR, Indy 500, Formula E and GT.She doesn’t come from a dynasty of racers — or from money. She had to fight her way into the racing circuits on her own.
“That’s why people like Deborah [Mayer] are so important, because when we get together we can do so much more,” said Legge.
Legge said one of the biggest challenges for women drivers can be getting sponsorship due to entrenched stereotypes about women in motor sports.
“Sponsors — a lot of them don't want to see women get hurt, don't necessarily believe that women can win."
Katherine Legge, Iron Dame pilot
“Sponsors — a lot of them don't want to see women get hurt, don't necessarily believe that women can win,” said Legge.
Legge broke both her legs last summer during a test drive in France. In just seven months she reached race-ready fitness. Now, she says, she has unfinished business.
“I want to go out on a high and win championships and win races, and I want to do it as part of an all-female team,” said Legge. “Because I think that the first all-female team that does that, will put a stamp on it, and then, you know, maybe I help other girls to become the next Iron Dames,” she said.
This year, the Iron Dames have 30 races to make their mark and push for that change. When women reach the podium, sponsors take notice, and new opportunities open up for more fierce girls in the game.
The economic fallout from the COVID-19 pandemic has driven an unprecedented increase in hunger across the world, according to the United Nations’ assessment of humanitarian needs in 2021, released this week.
It says the number of people across the globe at risk of hunger is up 82% from a year ago, to an astounding 270 million. A whopping 70% of them are women and girls.
They are more likely to go without food so others in their families can eat. And, for them, hunger leads to other dangers: Girls are being forced into child marriages; women are resorting to transactional sex, and human trafficking is on the rise.
“There has been a surge in kidnappings. A lot of young girls have gone missing. It’s heartbreaking and scary.”
Ashlee Burnett, Feminitt
“There has been a surge in kidnappings. A lot of young girls have gone missing,” said Ashlee Burnett, 23, an advocate and poet in Trinidad and Tobago. “It’s heartbreaking and scary.”
Organizations like Burnett’s nonprofit, Feminitt, are stepping in to help women while the international humanitarian community struggles to raise funds to respond. Burnett’s six-person staff worked long hours without pay to create online resources that connect women facing abuse with help. Burnett said they may not be reaching huge numbers of women, but it's more than the government is doing.
“They haven’t put things in place, like proper protective policies, even now, to protect women and children,” she said. “There’s a recovery committee that seeks to only focus only on the economy, but not understanding that we have to have these laws revamped, we have to take care of our most vulnerable.”
Related: Marie Stopes International name change will ‘put a focus on the future’ of reproductive choice, CEO says
‘They are not protected’Governments and humanitarian groups are not responding forcefully enough to COVID-19’s disproportionate impact on women and girls in part because they lack representation “at the decision-making table,” said Hilary Mathews at CARE, an international nonprofit focused on gender issues.
Mathews said CARE reviewed 73 COVID-19 reports by UN agencies and the World Bank — and almost half of them failed to mention women’s and girls’ specific needs. CARE also looked at national committees set up by countries to respond to the fallout from COVID-19. They found that 74% of those committees had fewer than one-third women members, and only one group was “fully equal,” she said.
Another bigger problem is money. The Norwegian Refugee Council just released a report that said international donors only provide a fourth of the funding necessary to protect marginalized people worldwide, even as gender-based violence spirals out of control.
“Tens of million [sic] of the most vulnerable on this planet are under attack from men with guns and power and they are alone. They are not protected.”
Jan Egeland, Norwegian Refugee Council
The council’s secretary-general, Jan Egeland, said at a Dec. 1 online meeting of global humanitarian groups, “Tens of million [sic] of the most vulnerable on this planet are under attack from men with guns and power and they are alone,” adding, “They are not protected.”
At that same meeting, William Chemaly, who coordinates international humanitarian assistance, said that the most effective response would be to funnel resources to local organizations with the most access to people who need help, but the challenges are plenty.
“Those who have the best possible access on the ground to deliver assistance have the worst access to resources,” he said. “We need to change that.”
Related: At the UN review of US human rights, the Trump administration gets an earful
Communities mobilizing Some local actors aren’t waiting for international help. In Queens, New York, 26-year-old Aatish Gurung heard from undocumented friends struggling to buy groceries, who couldn’t afford menstrual products.
“What I thought was, ‘Someone has to do something about this,’” he said. “And my parents — they always tell me, ‘If you want something, go for it’ — like not to wait for someone else to do it for you.”
So, he reached out to the global nonprofit Period; within two weeks, it sent him bulk packages of tampons and sanitary napkins. Gurung used his network as a long-time advocate, and with the help of volunteers, distributed the products to hundreds of Bhutanese, Nepali and Tibetan immigrants.
“It was really amazing to see people coming together even during these hard times,” Gurung said.
In Nepal, 27-year-old Rukumani Tripathi had just graduated as part of the Midwifery Society of Nepal’s first class of midwives when the lockdown hit. She and fellow graduates handed out their personal phone numbers to pregnant women who couldn’t go to the hospital.
Eventually, donors helped establish a 24-hour toll-free number that provides free counseling for hundreds of Nepali women.
“We never thought we could make this big impact in the society [sic] and we could help women even though we are at home.”
Rukumani Tripathi, Midwifery Society of Nepal graduate
“We never thought we could make this big impact in the society [sic] and we could help women even though we are at home,” Tripathi said.
Related: Bars for queer and transgender women are disappearing worldwide. Will they survive the pandemic?
And in Romania, 18-year-old Sofia Scarlat’s gender equality nonprofit, Girl Up Romania, saw a surge of messages from women and girls asking for help dealing with online revenge pornography.
“Everybody moved into the online world and all the violence that women and girls dealt with face to face moved online with us,” she said.
Scarlat said there’s not much help from lawmakers in Romania to address online harassment, and police don’t pursue justice for victims. So, her team worked with journalists to uncover a network of thousands of people online sharing revenge pornography of Romanian women and girls. As a result, Scarlat said she became a target of harassment and threats.
“It’s really remarkable and very saddening that around the world, so many young advocates are having to risk their safety in order to do the jobs of people who are literally being paid to carry out these tasks,” she said.
Scarlat doesn’t regret her activism, though — she said when women and girls face hunger and violence and aren’t getting the help they need, it’s the community’s responsibility to do something about it.
When Sevilay, a 38-year-old, stay-at-home mom in Istanbul, learned she was pregnant with a third child, she agonized over what to do.
“I became very upset when I learned about my pregnancy. I wondered whether I could do it or not. I was already having a hard time with two kids. There was nobody that could help me.”
Sevilay, a mother of two in Turkey who had an abortion
“I became very upset when I learned about my pregnancy. I wondered whether I could do it or not. I was already having a hard time with two kids. There was nobody that could help me,” said Sevilay, who asked that her full name not be used for privacy reasons.
After thinking about it, she made the tough decision to have an abortion, something she needed permission from her husband to do, as is required by law in Turkey. She thought that would be the hardest part.
Related: In Turkey, a conservative push to remove domestic violence protections is met with an uproar
The greater challenge, though, was finding a hospital willing to perform an abortion. Private hospitals cost too much, up to $500. But public ones kept turning her away.
Turkey is one of the few majority-Muslim countries where abortion is legal, but access to them is becoming increasingly limited under the conservative government. Abortion has been legal in the country since 1983 — and wealthy women from places such as Saudi Arabia and Iran, where the procedure is banned, often turn to Turkish clinics. But it’s still deeply stigmatized in Turkey.
In the last decade, the ruling conservative AK Party and President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan have been chipping away at reproductive rights. Police have busted back-alley clinics for low-income women while many public hospitals have stopped providing abortions altogether.
In 2012, the government tried to reduce the 10-week pregnancy limit to six weeks, but feminists fought back and won. Erdoğan publicly calls abortion a crime and says women should have at least three children.
Sedef Erkmen, who authored a book on the subject, told Duvar, a Turkish news site, that the “anti-abortion practices that have been systematically implemented since 2012 turned into a de facto ban.”
Related: Turkey passes ‘draconian’ social media legislation
Public hospitals can simply refuse women access based on what the president says, not the law. So, low-income women — in many cases, Syrian refugees — turn to back-alley clinics that do the procedure illegally.
Last year, news broke that police had raided a clinic fronting as a Syrian hair salon. Three people were arrested.
Related: Expulsions, pushbacks and extraditions: Turkey’s war on dissent extends to Europe
An all-too-familiar story Sevilay reached out to Mor Cati, a women rights group, which helped her find a public hospital to do the abortion for free. But she says that even that hospital’s staff tried to make her feel guilty, and threatened her.
“They said, ‘If you come to this hospital for another abortion, we won’t let you in,’” she said.
She had an abortion at nine weeks, one week before it becomes illegal in Turkey. Sevilay says she felt broken by the emotional toll and harsh treatment. After the abortion, she felt awful.
“I felt bad. I woke up crying. To be honest, sometimes my heart aches.”
Sevilay, a mother of two in Turkey who had an abortion
“I felt bad. I woke up crying. To be honest, sometimes my heart aches,” she said.
Unfortunately, Sevilay’s story is all too common in Turkey. That’s something that Hazal Atay can attest to. She’s an outreach coordinator at Women on Web, a Dutch-based platform that helps women get access to abortions in restrictive countries.
Turkey banned Women on Web's website in 2016. But Turkish women still find ways to contact them. Many are faced with dire circumstances.
Related: Turkey's president formally makes Haghia Sophia a mosque
Like one 22-year-old woman in Erzurum, whose letter Atay shared with The World, in English: “I’m sure this situation is difficult for everyone, but if my family learns about the pregnancy, they won’t let me live. I know you help a lot of people, but you don’t know where I live, and you don’t know my family. You are my only hope," the woman said in the letter, adding, “Please get back to me as soon as possible. I cannot trust anyone except you. This is a conservative city. Even if I go to the hospital ... they will let my family know about it. Please help.”
Two other letters sent to them from women in Istanbul reflect the same desperation. One woman says she doesn’t have the money to get an abortion. Another has run away from a violent husband but needs his permission to abort her pregnancy.
Sevilay says she is still criticized by some of her women friends for having an abortion. But she says she just wants what is best for her family: “I am trying to set higher standards for my children. I am trying to provide them a good life … I can give birth to five children and can raise them very well, but I can’t provide them good opportunities.”
After almost two decades of war, representatives from the Afghan government are meeting with Taliban leaders in Doha, Qatar, to discuss a peace agreement.
Four of the 42 negotiators are women — all on the Afghan government team — and they are looking to stand up for their hard-won rights.
Related: Afghan peace talks set to start despite escalating attacks
The Taliban ruled Afghanistan in the 1990s. They instilled a sense of fear among many women. They banned them from leaving their homes without a male chaperone, restricted their education and forced them to wear burqas — the loose-fitting outfit that covers their bodies from head to toe.
The US invasion in 2001 toppled the Taliban and in the years since there has been major progress in women’s rights. Now, with the possibility of another Taliban power grab, many worry about losing those rights.
Habiba Sarabi, speaking from Doha, said she was not nervous about the meetings, but that she came to the Qatari capital with a big task.
“It’s not easy work. We feel a kind of heavy responsibility on our shoulders.”
Habiba Sarabi, Afghan negotiator in the peace talks with Taliban leaders
“It’s not easy work,” she said. “We feel a kind of heavy responsibility on our shoulders.”
Related: Hundreds of prisoners missing after Afghanistan prison attack
She said back home, women are counting on her and her colleagues to safeguard what they achieved in the past two decades.
Today, women in Afghanistan can hold public office. Sarabi herself is an example of that. She was the first woman to be elected governor. She also served as the minister of women’s affairs and education.
Last week, the two sides appointed two “working groups,” which each have five members. They met to discuss procedural matters such as how to conduct meetings and what rules to follow. Ten days later, they are yet to reach a consensus on that.
“I thought the procedural matters would only take a few hours,” said Sharifa Zurmati Wardak, another representative participating in the negotiations.
Zurmati is not part of the working groups, but she said complications often arise when the negotiators bring back ideas to their teams.
“Sometimes, they don’t agree to the points that were brought up and they have to go back with new suggestions,” she said.
The slow progress shows just how complicated the negotiations are. Years of war have left the two sides weary and skeptical of one another.
Related: A newborn survived an attack at a hospital in Afghanistan. Now the long road to recovery begins.
Meanwhile, back in Afghanistan, the violence continues. Just as the talks were getting underway in Doha, a local official in Zurmati’s province was shot dead.
According to Paktia’s media office, Ayub Gharwal was attacked and killed by gunmen on Sept. 19.
Zurmati got the news in Doha.
“There is no question: We want an immediate ceasefire. People of Afghanistan are tired of the bloodshed. It’s time to stop the killing.”
Sharifa Zurmati Wardak, Afghan negotiator in the peace talks with Taliban leaders
“There is no question: We want an immediate ceasefire,” she said. “People of Afghanistan are tired of the bloodshed. It’s time to stop the killing.”
A ceasefire is one of the main sticking points. Taliban representatives have said they are not ready yet to agree to an immediate and permanent ceasefire.
Zurmati has been answering messages from people back in Afghanistan nonstop. They want to know how the process is shaping up.
“Every day, we ask when are we going to start talking about the real issues?” she said. “People of Afghanistan have been at war for 40 years. It’s hard, but we have to be patient.”
Since the death of Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg on Friday, there has been an outpouring of recognition for her work fighting for justice in many corners of American society.
Lesser known is how a period of her life spent outside the United States influenced her views on equality for women.
In the early 1960s, Ginsburg traveled to Sweden and learned Swedish to work on a project with a Swedish legal scholar, Anders Bruzelius, on the rules of civil procedure in Europe.
Karin Maria Bruzelius is a former justice on the Supreme Court of Norway and is now at the Scandinavian Institute for Maritime Law at the University of Oslo. She’s also the daughter of Anders Bruzelius. She spoke to The World's host Marco Werman about Ginsburg's legacy and what she learned in Sweden.
Related: Ginsburg's impact on women spanned age groups, backgrounds
Marco Werman: Judge Bruzelius, I’d like to start with your reaction to the news of Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg's death. What have you been feeling?Karin Maria Bruzelius: I’ve been feeling a lot of sadness. I had great admiration for her, and she’s played a very important part in my family's life.
In the early 1960s, Ruth Bader Ginsburg traveled to Sweden to work on a research project with your father, Anders Bruzelius. Explain what that project was about. What were they researching?At Columbia University, they had undertaken to present the rules on civil procedure in several European countries, and Ruth and my father were asked to undertake the Swedish part of the project. ... They started the project in 1961, and they corresponded for a year while Ruth was learning Swedish in New York. They were exchanging views and opinions, and then she came with her daughter Jane...to Lund, in Sweden, where my family lived, and she stayed there for several months that year.
Do you have memories of her from that time?My memory is of a person who was very serious, who was very eager to do the work, and who was very interested in the way we, in Sweden, arranged the way that women could work.
Interestingly, Ruth Bader Ginsburg spoke some years later and said her “eyes were opened up in Sweden.” For the first time, she saw law school classes where a quarter of the students were women. So, coming from the US, just how surprising would that have been, do you think, to a young Ruth Bader Ginsburg?It was very surprising. I mean, if you look at her background and her experiences from Harvard and Columbia, women were a minority — and it was a fighting minority. I was studying law in Sweden at that time, and there were not very many equality questions involved in studying law. Also, the society was to a very different degree arranged so that women could marry and continue their studies — all these [things] that Ruth had had to fight for. And also to have children. There were kindergartens or childcare centers where the kids were taken care of. Ruth put her child in one of those during her stay in Lund, and she was very, very pleased with the facilities that were offered.
What other things around the climate around gender politics at that time in Sweden do you think influenced Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s thinking?I think the state, to a very large extent, engaged itself in facilitating that women were treated equally in many more aspects than there were in the United States.
And talks with my mother, who was a feminist, a very early feminist, and talks in Stockholm, with a Swedish author who was called Eva Moberg, who wrote about the gender issues at that time, also gave her a lot of food for thought.
Related: Women's rights are not explicitly recognized in US
Did Ginsburg have an influence on your own career in the law? I studied law in New York in 1968, '69. I was more mature by that time and we discussed more of the issues of women’s rights, and she got me to write an article on the situation in Norway a couple of years later.
Of course, her seriousness and her belief in law as a possible tool to obtain goals were transmitted to me, too. So, yes she did have an impact.
This image provided by the Supreme Court shows Ruth Bader Ginsburg types while on a Rockefeller Foundation fellowship in Italy in 1977.
Credit:
Collection of the Supreme Court of the United States
This interview was edited and condensed for clarity.
Looking at Haneen Hossam’s TikTok account, one might wonder why her content landed the Egyptian social media user in jail. In one post, she explains for her followers the Greek mythological story of Venus and Adonis, which is also a Shakespeare poem.
Mawada al-Adham does similarly anodyne things that are familiar to anyone who observes such social influencers, like giving away iPhones and driving a fancy car.
They are just two of the nine women arrested in Egypt this past year for what they posted on TikTok. Mostly, their videos are full of dancing to Arabic songs, usually a genre of electro-pop, Egyptian sha’abi folk music called mahraganat, or festival tunes. The clips feature a typically TikTok style — with feet planted, hands gesticulating and eyebrows emoting.
Meanwhile, the Trump administration has put TikTok and its Chinese parent company, ByteDance, in its sights with another escalation against Beijing. The US Commerce Department announced Friday that TikTok, and another Chinese-owned app, WeChat, would be blocked from US app stores.
In Egypt, the arrests are about dictating morality rather than any kind of geopolitical struggle or international tech rivalry. But what exactly the government finds legally objectionable about these women’s online content is ambiguous.
“They themselves would have never imagined that they would go to jail and be sentenced for what they were doing, because what they're doing is basically what everyone else does on social media.”
Salma El Hosseiny, International Service for Human Rights
“They themselves would have never imagined that they would go to jail and be sentenced for what they were doing because what they're doing is basically what everyone else does on social media,” said Salma El Hosseiny of the International Service for Human Rights, a nongovernmental organization based in Geneva. “Singing and dancing as if you would at an Egyptian wedding, for example.”
Hosseiny said that these women were likely targeted because they’re from middle- or working-class backgrounds and dance to a style of music shunned by the bourgeoisie for scandalous lyrics that touch on taboo topics.
“You have social media influencers who come from elite backgrounds, or upper-middle class, or rich classes in Egypt, who would post the same type of content. These women are working-class women,” she added. “They have stepped out of what is permitted for them.”
Criminalizing the internetThey were charged under a cybercrime law passed in 2018, as well as existing laws in the Egyptian Penal Code that have been employed against women in the past.
Yasmin Omar, a researcher at The Tahrir Institute for Middle East Policy in Washington, said the cybercrime law is vague when it comes to defining what’s legal and what isn’t.
“It was written using very broad terms that could be very widely interpreted and criminalizing a lot of acts that are originally considered as personal freedom,” she said. “Looking at it, you would see that anything you might post on social media, anything that you may use [on] the internet could be criminalized under this very wide umbrella.”
Egypt’s cybercrime law is part of a larger effort by the government to increase surveillance of online activities. As TikTok became much more popular during the pandemic, prosecutors started looking there too, Omar said.
“When I write anything on my social media accounts, I know that it could be seen by an official whose job it is to watch the internet and media platforms,” said Omar, who added that that surveillance often leads to widespread repression.
“The state is simply arresting whoever says anything that criticizes its policy, its laws, its practices ... even if it's just joking. It's not even allowed.”
Related: One woman's story highlights national wave of repression and sexual violence
The arrests of TikTokers shows that this law isn’t just about monitoring and controlling political dissent, but is used to police conservative social norms.
Menna Abdel Aziz, 17, made a live video on Facebook. Her face was bruised and she told viewers that she had been raped and was asking for help.
The police asked her to come in, and when she did, Omar said, they looked at her TikTok account and decided she was inciting debauchery and harming family values in Egypt — essentially blaming the victim for what had occurred.
This past summer, there were a number of particularly shocking allegations involving rape and sexual assault in Egypt. First, dozens of women accused a young man at the American University in Cairo (AUC) of sexual violence ranging from blackmail to rape. And in another case, a group of well-connected men were accused of gang-raping a young woman in Cairo’s Fairmont Hotel in 2014 and circulating a video of the act.
The cases garnered a lot of attention within Egypt. Many Egyptian women were shocked by the horrible details of the cases but not surprised about the allegations or that the details had been kept under wraps for so long.
“In Egypt, sexual violence and violence against women is systematic,” Hosseiny said. “It's part of the daily life of women to be sexually harassed.”
‘To go after women’A UN Women report in 2014 said that 99.3% of Egyptian women reported being victims of sexual harassment. Yet, women are often culturally discouraged from reporting sexual harassment in the traditional society.
“They are investing state resources to go after women who are singing and dancing on social media, and trying to control their bodies, and thinking that this is what's going to make society better and a safer place,” Hosseiny said, “by locking up women, rather than by changing and investing in making Egypt a safe place for women and girls.”
When prosecutors started investigating the accused in that high-profile Fairmont case, it looked like real progress and a victory for online campaigning by women. The state-run National Council for Women even encouraged the victim and witnesses to come forward, promising the women protection. But that pledge by the state did not materialize.
“Somehow, the prosecution decided to charge the witnesses,” said Omar, the researcher. “Witnesses who made themselves available, made their information about their lives, about what they know about the case — all this information was used against them.”
“Witnesses who made themselves available, made their information about their lives, about what they know about the case — all this information was used against them.”
Yasmin Omar, Tahrir Institute for Middle East Policy
Once again, Egyptian authorities looked at the women’s social media accounts, and then investigated the women for promoting homosexuality, drug use, debauchery and publication of false news. One of the witnesses arrested is an American citizen.
When pro-state media outlets weighed in on the TikTok cases, they also had a message about blame, Hosseiny said. The coverage used sensational headlines and showed photos of the women framed in a sexual way. This contrasted with the depictions in rape cases in which the accused men’s photos were blurred and only their initials printed.
Social media has played an important role in Egyptian politics during the last decade. In 2011, crowds toppled the regime of military dictator Hosni Mubarak. That uprising was in part organized online with Twitter and Facebook. In 2018, the former army general, and current president, Abdel Fattah al-Sisi, said he would maintain stability in Egypt.
“Beware! What happened seven years ago is never going to happen again in Egypt,” he swore to a large auditorium full of officials.
Related: Five years of Sisi's crackdown has left 'no form of opposition' in Egypt
Samer Shehata, a professor at the University of Oklahoma, said Egypt’s military-backed regime is wary of the implications of anything posted online, even if it's just dancing.
“I think there has been a heightened paranoia as a result of hysteria ... about the possible political consequences of social media,” he said. “I think that they certainly have those kinds of concerns in the back of their minds as well.”
Of the nine women charged with TikTok crimes, four have been convicted and three have appeals set for October.
Menna Abdel Aziz, the young woman who called for help online, was just released from detainment Wednesday and is being dismissed with no charges.
George Floyd’s killing this past spring has sparked battles throughout the country, particularly around places and things that evoke historical injustices and inequalities, like statues of Confederate leaders. But there are also clashes throughout North America around an often-used word that many don’t know is a racial slur: “squaw.”
That’s beginning to change now as places like Squaw Valley Alpine Meadows in California's Sierra mountains are taking action to stop using the term.
“We’re probably the most well-known place with that name,” said Ron Cohen, CEO of Squaw Valley Alpine Meadows. The resort was named by the first white settlers who stumbled into the valley; they met a group of Native American women the settlers called squaws, and so they named it Squaw Valley. The consensus among Indigenous people today is that the term is a sexual slur that demeans and dehumanizes Indigenous women.
Related: Video of police beating Indigenous chief fuels ongoing anti-racism protests in Canada
Roughly a hundred years later, the world gathered in the same spot for the 1960 Winter Olympics. Squaw Valley was transformed into an elegant ski resort that, afterward, attracted generations of families.
“Our guests — their grandparents skied here, their grandparents took their parents to learn to ski here when they were little kids,” Cohen said. “Those parents grew up and brought their kids here to learn to ski.”
Some people are attached to the resort’s name because it’s connected to so many family memories, Cohen said. But after Floyd’s murder, he said he couldn’t ignore the emails he received from people offended by the name. And Cohen said that’s what led to a decision announced last month to change the resort’s name.
“I think it’s entirely understandable that our announcement would kick off discussions elsewhere,” he said.
The resort’s work to determine a new name began right away, and it will be implemented in 2021.
More often than not, it’s Indigenous women leading the fight to rid the word squaw from public places.
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One of them is Jude Daniels, from Alberta, Canada, who is Métis. She lives at the base of a mountain peak that white explorers named Squaw’s Tit.
“So, I saw that peak every single day for the last 15 years,” she said. “And even though I have with one exception been treated with respect, I know that odiously named peak is part of the systemic discrimination that is one of the root causes of the huge rates of violence against Indigenous women across Canada.”
Last year, a Canadian government report found that failures by law enforcement have led to systemic violence against Indigenous women and girls. They are three to five times more likely than other women to be victims of violence. Daniels first learned the harm of the word squaw when she was a child in school.
“Kids would say things to me, like ‘dirty squaw,’ “dirty Indian,”” she remembered.
In 2000, Canada’s British Columbia province eliminated the use of the word squaw from all its place names after receiving requests from local Indigenous leaders. But that’s not the case in neighboring Alberta.
“So it happened right next door,” Daniels said. “And here we are in Alberta, and we still have to place names with the word squaw in it.”
Related: Indigenous groups in Canada fight to stay closed as restrictions ease
Daniels has waged a yearslong campaign to change the name of the mountain peak with the help of pro bono attorneys. Their fight got a sudden boost this summer after Floyd’s death. Daniels said now the local community is overwhelmingly supportive of getting rid of the name. It’s just a matter of choosing another one.
Other communities have put up more resistance, as Mandy Steele found. She’s a borough council member in Fox Chapel, an affluent suburb of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She learned what squaw meant this summer at a Black Lives Matter rally in a park.
“The park happened to be called Squaw Valley Park,” Steele said. “And at that rally, a Native American woman spoke.”
The woman, Michele Leonard, talked about what the word squaw means, and why it should be changed. She turned out to be one of Steele’s constituents, who happens to live on a street called Squaw Run Road. Steele put forward a motion to eliminate all the uses of squaw in names there.
“And the council instead decided to put the task of determining whether or not the word is a slur to a committee of residents, in a community that's largely white and privileged,” Steele said.
At that council meeting, on Zoom, Leonard had three minutes to comment.
Related: Canadian activists say they’re being targeted by China
“I don’t think you understand how painful it has been to hear you speak,” Leonard said, reminding council members that she has lived on Squaw Run Road for 30 years. “I am the Native American woman who has to send out greeting cards with a return address with that horrible word. … I had to get a post office box so I would not use that address for some of the Indian member organizations I belong to.”
Leonard is on the committee that will decide whether the word warrants being removed. She said she’ll argue that while the early white settlers might not have not known they were using a slur, people should recognize that now, and take action.
This past Sunday, hundreds of far-right nationalists gathered at the gates of the University of Warsaw in Poland. They rallied against “LGBT aggression” and chanted taunts about a well-known activist known as Margot. Another group countered them, rainbow flags in hand, while a massive police presence kept them apart.
Margot — Małgorzata Szutowicz — a 25-year-old nonbinary person who uses female pronouns, runs a radical, queer collective in Warsaw called Stop Bzdurom, or Stop the Nonsense, with her partner, Łania Madej, 21.
Related: In Turkey, a conservative push to remove domestic violence protections is met with an uproar
The collective, and particularly Margot, have become the face of the LGBT rights movement in Poland in recent days. Margot is currently being held in two-month, pretrial detention for assault and property damage charges after a dispute with a van driver from an organization spreading anti-LGBT messages.
Supporters inside the country and beyond continue to call for her release, and a range of celebrities — from the writer Margaret Atwood to the actor Stellan Skarsgaard — are calling for greater LGBT rights in Poland.
Poland is considered the worst country in the European Union in terms of gay rights. The cultural divisiveness of the issue came through in the narrow reelection of Andrzej Duda for president in July. Duda, backed by the nationalist Law and Justice (PiS) party, campaigned on an anti-LGBT platform, calling it an "ideology worse than communism."
According to an IPSOS poll in late 2019, 1 in 4 Poles said the LGBT movement is the country’s greatest threat. Nearly a third of Polish towns and cities have declared themselves as “LGBT-free zones,” a move that resulted in the European Union denying funding to certain towns.
Stop Bzdurom’s name is a reference to a proposed, "Stop Pedophilia” bill that opened the door to legal action for teaching sexual education. The bill’s supporters blamed what they call the “LGBT lobby” for promoting sexual discussions in schools and “grooming” children toward homosexuality.
Related: As Poland's Duda seeks 'Trump bump,' Putin looks to revise history
These are messages echoed by the anti-abortion, Pro-Right to Life Foundation, which sends vans around Polish cities — displaying banners of aborted fetuses and anti-gay messages that they also broadcast through megaphones. The organization is also against the so-called LGBT lobby.
Their messages often connect homosexuality with pedophilia and child abuse.
“A few hours every day, they ride around the city with huge speakers and just scream about us raping children and stuff like that, so we started spray painting the cars.”
Łania Madej, Polish LGBT acvitist
“A few hours every day, they ride around the city with huge speakers and just scream about us raping children and stuff like that, so we started spray painting the cars,” Madej said.
Margot and Madej would also stand in the street to block them, sometimes remove the license plates, and one day in June, they fought with a driver. The drivers know the activists and often pass by where they live. That day, a fight broke out that resulted in Margot’s later arrest and charges for property destruction and assault, though Margot says she only shoved the driver and he was not injured. She was released after a night in jail.
Tensions around gay rights have been building in socially conservative Poland for years. Conservative governments in Europe have courted the right by scapegoating vulnerable minority groups.
Related: Young people in Poland are rediscovering their Jewish roots
Karolina Gierdal, a lawyer with the organization Campaign Against Homophobia, says refugees used to be the target in Poland. In the past few years, queer people have emerged as the new boogeyman.
“You can create an enemy that does not necessarily have to take away your money like the refugees are supposed to do, but they can take away you feeling Polish, you being Polish. They can take away your culture. Or they can destroy your family and hurt your children,” she explained via Skype.
Gierdal says her organization works to improve rights for queer people through policy and by normalizing the issues. But this doesn’t seem to be enough right now, she says.
Margot and Madej say this is where they come in. Margot says they push the boundaries to make space for others to operate in.
“We are too radical for everybody, but we support our supporters and our queer activists and they move the middle part,” she explained during an interview with The World prior to her detention.
“We are the people who will destroy the van and bring attention to it and the other organizations are the people who are going to maybe take care of that with laws and stuff,” Madej said.
Related: Berlin 'abortion aunts' help Polish women access safe abortions
Earlier this month, the two took another step. With other activists, they hung rainbow flags on monuments, including a statue of Christ. For many devout Catholics in the country, this was a highly provocative message. Margot, Madej and one other activist were briefly held on charges of offending religious sentiments.
The next day, Margot was taken back into custody for the earlier charges related to the incident with the van driver, now to serve two-month pretrial detention. A crowd blocked the police car holding her and 48 people were arrested. Gierdal says both Margot’s long detention and the seemingly random arrests were excessive.
Madej says they don’t expect to change the minds on the right but want to help queer Polish youth feel less alone.
“We do it only for the queer kids who run with us and they have a little bit of fun and feel brave for 10 minutes.”
Łania Madej, Polish LGBT acvitist
“We do it only for the queer kids who run with us and they have a little bit of fun and feel brave for 10 minutes,” she said, referring to their activism around the anti-LGBT vans.
A day later, on Aug. 8, thousands gathered at the city center in protest.
Maria Kobus, a 69-year-old accountant, was one of them. Though she says she’s not an activist, she feels queer people are being denied equal rights. Kobus’ daughter lives outside the country with her wife.
“She will never come back,” Kobus said.
Smaller protests sprung up around Poland and even some other European cities. But not all Polish supporters think activism is the right way. From a park outside her Warsaw apartment, 78-year-old Helena Kośnicka remembers officiating the unofficial wedding of her gay neighbors. Gay marriage is not legal in Poland.
Kośnicka supports LGBT rights. But she doesn’t agree with protesting.
“They shouldn’t do silly things too much. Because that annoys people,” she said.
But the activists say maybe it’s time to start making more noise. Some are asking if this could be Poland’s Stonewall, the 1969 riots in New York City that were a turning point for the gay rights movement in the US.
“I believe we really want Polish Stonewall because we’re so tired and we want something to change,” said Gierdal, the lawyer.
In early July, Deb Perelman, the food blogger behind Smitten Kitchen and a mom of two kids, penned an op-ed for The New York Times with a provocative title about life during COVID-19: “You Can Have a Kid or a Job. You Can’t Have Both.” Perelman described the struggle of caring for children while still trying to keep up with her work, a problem ultimately “solved” when her husband was furloughed and then laid off from his job. But research shows that in the majority of American households, women have shouldered more child care during the pandemic. And for working mothers, that has meant some hard choices.
According to research from Syracuse University, more than 80% of adults in the country who were not working because they were caring for children — who would be in school or daycare if not for COVID-19 — were women. A paper published in the academic journal Gender, Work & Organization found that mothers of young children reduced their working hours four to five times more than fathers, widening the gender gap in hours from 20% to 50%.
Just a few months ago, women in the workforce had reached a historic milestone: excluding farm labor and self-employment, the number of women on payrolls in the United States exceeded the number of men. But now, that progress has been put on hold and is in jeopardy, according to Betsey Stevenson, professor of economics and public policy at the University of Michigan.
“There is a rot that’s at the core of women’s employment right now, and that’s child care and elder care, and how women are going to maintain their place in the labor force when we’re really having a crisis of care in the country,” Stevenson said.
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COVID-19 has upended the “patchwork” system of care in the US — from formal programs such as schools, day cares, and summer camps, to informal solutions such as relying on relatives and friends to help out. The virus’ prevalence and way of spreading largely renders those resources unsafe.
Parents and caregivers are now taking care of and entertaining their kids 24/7 — on top of working or searching for a job. These conflicting demands require all parents to make difficult choices, but it is mothers who are most frequently making career sacrifices for their children.
‘Untenable’ arrangementsAlthough younger men today are much more likely to profess their belief in gender equality, they are not significantly more likely to divide most household tasks equitably, from child care to grocery shopping.
Some might argue that social distancing and isolation would act as an equalizer for couples; if both parents are now home all the time, perhaps the partner who generally does less housework would start to absorb the burdens of running a household and finally do their share.
However, according to Stevenson, who served as the chief economist at the US Department of Labor under former President Barack Obama, that is not always how it works out. Women often find it untenable to put off child care or housework.
If the guy is driving toward the cliff of not feeding the children, and the woman is driving toward the cliff of not feeding the children, she pulls off first and she feeds the children ... and the problem is that if he knows that she’s going to pull off first, then he wins the game of chicken.
Betsey Stevenson, University of Michigan professor
“If the guy is driving toward the cliff of not feeding the children, and the woman is driving toward the cliff of not feeding the children, she pulls off first and she feeds the children,” she explains. “And the problem is that if he knows that she’s going to pull off first, then he wins the game of chicken.”
Instead, the oversized demands on women lead to an impossible juggling act, which often forces them to cut back on their careers. The fact that women already tended to choose more flexible jobs before the pandemic facilitates this adjustment. And cutting back during the pandemic or leaving the workforce altogether can have negative consequences for gender equality in the future.
‘Child care is just essential’This spring, employment rates for women fell to around where they were in the 1980s. Although they have been rising as the economy reopens, Stevenson doesn’t expect an immediate rebound and warns that the impact of this setback will be far-reaching.
Taking time off from work now puts future promotions and jobs in jeopardy. “[Fewer hours] will then reduce [women’s] earnings as a share of the household income, which will make them a less important labor market player in their household,” Stevenson explains.
According to Stevenson, one of the main drivers for greater household equality in the past has been increasingly comparable incomes between men and women. If men make much more money, it makes more sense to prioritize their jobs over their spouses’ when it comes to figuring out child care and housework.
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However, Stevenson suggests that the spotlight placed on childcare by the pandemic has the potential to lead to lasting change. “We’ve revealed that child care is just essential for just a giant share of the workforce, and to just ignore it and keep pretending it’s just a personal problem is a mistake in thinking about the macro economy.”
This summer marks 100 years since the 19th Amendment was ratified, guaranteeing women the right to vote in the US. There’s still a long way to go to achieve equality though, and Stevenson urges Americans to use this opportunity to reimagine the post-COVID-19 balance between work and care.
“What does a world look like where we make space for people to do the caregiving they need to do and move seamlessly back into their career?” Stevenson asked. “If you don’t lean in the whole time, you don’t make it to the top. But leaning in is really, really hard if you want to take time to really engage with your children. And that’s true for men and for women, and so we just need a very different conversation about, what does life look like when you make space for both?”
Teresa Lawlor is an intern at Innovation Hub. You can follow her on Twitter: @tmlawlor
Access to abortion in Spain is sacrosanct. The procedures are free — covered by the public national health care system — and allowed up until the 14th week of pregnancy for any reason; until the 22nd week with a doctor’s note; and sometimes after 22 weeks if there are issues with either the fetus’ or the mother’s health.
Since abortion become legal in 1985, right-wing politicians have periodically made feeble attempts to limit or ban access to it. Each time it happens, though, the action is met with strong pushback from the public.
But this past January, shortly before the country went into a three-month lockdown in response to the coronavirus pandemic, the Spanish government banned a nonprofit organization, Women on Web, which for 15 years has offered medically approved information about abortions in 22 different languages, along with contraceptives and abortion pills.
Related: Centuries ago, Spanish writers challenged gender norms and barriers
The organization’s website has two main parts. The “I had an abortion” section aims to normalize or destigmatize abortions through the real-life stories of those who have had them. The second, and arguably most important, part is the “I need an abortion” section. Women on Web will mail the pills for a medical abortion to anyone who needs them and provides the needed medical consultation online with a strong emphasis on protecting users’ privacy.
Leticia Zenevich, a human rights lawyer representing Women on Web, says issues with censorship are not new. What is new is that Spain is the first country in Europe to block the site and one of the few countries to block Women on Web that also deems abortion a protected right.
The Spanish government has now joined the ranks of Saudi Arabia, Turkey, South Korea, Iran, Poland, Indonesia and Brazil in forcibly blocking access to a website that, according to its founders, empowers women to make their own health care choices.
There are many reasons someone might choose to go through a site like Women on Web, and over the last 15 years, more than half a million people have used the service. According to the Center for Reproductive Rights, 90 million women (5% of the global population) live in a country where abortion is outright banned, no matter the circumstances. Another 359 million (22% of the global population) live in a country where abortions are only allowed if the mother’s life is in jeopardy. Even in countries where abortion is legal, there are numerous other barriers that could prevent someone from going to their doctor such as distance or wanting to protect their privacy. No matter the reason, Zenevich says women must have the option to choose what is right for them.
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According to Zenevich, Women on Web didn’t receive any warnings that their site would be blocked. They only noticed something was wrong after Spain went into quarantine in March when they saw the number of users there decrease by 63% compared to the same month last year. At the same time, neighboring countries like France and Italy were seeing a notable increase in users as they, too, faced lockdowns from the coronavirus pandemic.
Women on Web partnered with a local cyberactivist who confirmed the site was down in Spain.
“We didn’t know who blocked us. We had to go to the UN special procedures to pressure them to know what was going on because there was no due process of law. We were just blocked overnight.”
Leticia Zenevich, human rights lawyer representing Women on Web
“We didn’t know who blocked us,” Zenevich said. “We had to go to the UN special procedures to pressure them to know what was going on because there was no due process of law. We were just blocked overnight.”
Zenevich says they had no idea if the censorship was from private actors, internet service providers, or the government.
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Silvia Aldavert, a coordinator at the Association for Reproductive and Sexual Rights in Barcelona, says this wasn’t a good move on the Spanish government’s part.
“Censoring this website isn’t very strategic, it’s meaningless,” Aldavert said. “And also very symbolic because you are censoring a website of an organization that has had a very important history.”
Especially, she adds, because there are still dozens of other websites, including a few mirror sites of Women on Web, where you can still easily buy the same drugs.
In an email to The World, a press person for Spain’s Health Ministry said that the site was blocked because Women on Web provides medication that is not authorized in Spain without a prescription. They say taking these pills without a doctor present is dangerous and not justifiable in a country where, they claim, there are no legal barriers to abortion.
Yet the two medications that Women on Web mails out — Mifepristone and Misoprostol — are the same drugs used in Spain for medical abortions.
Aldavert says there are in fact many barriers for women accessing abortion in Spain — for example, undocumented women don’t have access to the public health care system, and teenagers under 18 must have parental permission. But legal barriers are just the tip of the iceberg. Some women might need to keep it secret from their family or from an abusive partner, which was exacerbated during the nationwide lockdown. Or, they might face mobility or travel obstacles like having to travel long distances, not having a car or not being able to afford or access public transportation.
A study conducted by the World Health Organization found that between 2010 and 2014, roughly half of the 55.7 million abortions that took place were considered unsafe. While WHO classifies medical abortions without supervision to be unsafe, they said that if women access the pills through a telemedicine service like Women on Web, it is classified as a safe abortion.
“As an institution, your obligation is to give information to women, never to censor. The problem is not that sites like this exist, but rather that women aren’t informed about their basic rights surrounding abortions.”
Silvia Aldavert, Association for Reproductive and Sexual Rights
“As an institution, your obligation is to give information to women, never to censor,” Aldavert said. “The problem is not that sites like this exist, but rather that women aren’t informed about their basic rights surrounding abortions.”
Related: The first talking film made by a woman in Spain resurfaces
Aldavert says that at the Association for Reproductive and Sexual Rights, they have to clear up misconceptions or false information about abortions with their patients every day.
“It shows that this information isn’t reaching many women,” Aldavert said. “If the government really wanted to stop women from using these kinds of sites, they would create a comprehensive campaign to educate the public.”
There has never been that kind of educational campaign from the Spanish or regional governments, Aldavert says.
While this can be a problem for anyone facing an unwanted pregnancy, it is particularly challenging for migrants, those who don’t speak the language or those who don’t understand or have access to the country’s health care system. Zenevich says that in 2019, Women on Web received requests in 22 different languages in Spain alone.
Aldavert says that she doesn’t believe this was an intentional move to suppress abortion rights, but rather a political response to local news outlets warning about the online sale of abortion pills. But, she says, this is part of a bigger trend all over Europe and the United States where abortion rights are slowly being chipped away by blocking sites or introducing clauses like that of “conscientious objectors,” doctors who deny abortion services based on moral, religious or personal grounds. This can be particularly tricky as some public hospitals in Spain operate in partnership with the Catholic Church.
“If the government really wanted to keep women from ordering pills online, they should fill the gaps and ensure no one in Spain would even be in a situation where they need to order a pill online,” Aldavert said.
Professional women’s soccer players from around the world laced up in Paris last summer for the 2019 FIFA Women’s World Cup. A record 1.1 billion people watched the tournament, according to FIFA — a 30% increase from the 2015 event in Canada. Athletes on the field became household names, and players' jerseys hit record sales worldwide.
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Off the field, momentum was also rising. As women’s soccer was drawing more and more fans, the players were stepping up their fight against gender discrimination in the sport. World Cup tournaments have historically been a platform for athletes to raise awareness of inequities in soccer. In 2019, pay parity took the stage as chants for “equal pay” reverberated around the stadium.
But just a year later, the game’s visibility — and its journey toward equity — has been stopped in its tracks.
“Up until coronavirus, we saw that the game was absolutely exploding,” said Amanda Vandervort, chief women’s football officer at FIFPRO, an organization that supports professional soccer players.
Without games and tournaments, many of the factors contributing to the rise of women’s soccer and the athletes’ fight for equality have dissipated.
In a recent report examining COVID-19’s impact on professional women’s soccer, FIFPRO said the pandemic could “present an almost existential threat to the women’s game if no specific considerations are given to protect the women’s football industry.”
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One reason is that only 18% of female soccer players are considered professional by FIFA, Vandervort said. Players without contracts are considered amateurs and are therefore unable to join players' unions.
“The downstream implications of that at a moment like coronavirus means they might not be getting the support that they need, or have contractual status that might prove absolutely critical when we’re talking about labor negotiations and we’re talking about people keeping their job,” Vandervort said.
According to FIFPRO's most recent statistics, 47% of female players didn't have a contract with their clubs, while only 8% of male players faced the same reality.
According to FIFPRO's most recent statistics, 47% of female players didn't have a contract with their clubs, while only 8% of male players faced the same reality.
The unique impact that the coronavirus is having on women’s teams is already being felt. In Colombia, the soccer club Independiente Santa Fe suspended work contracts for its women’s team. But its men’s team is still being partially paid — even though the women’s team is ranked higher than the men’s team in their respective groups.
International games being canceled and postponed is another loss that can’t be underestimated, said Sarah Gregorius, who played in the 2019 World Cup for New Zealand, but now works for FIFPRO’s policy team.
“So often, players have used the World Cups in particular to raise issues pertaining to off-field incidents. So, they’re really critical,” she said.
International showings are also important for players' career trajectories.
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“What I find an interesting predicament about international football is that it’s often a bit of a shop window for individual players to put themselves forward to the world and put themselves forward to future employers,” she added.
Following the success of the 2019 Women’s World Cup, FIFA pledged a $1 billion investment in the women’s game. Since the coronavirus crisis, they’ve reiterated their commitment to the investment. But Gregorius says it may not be enough, as the sports industry is “hemorrhaging money” during the pandemic. For example, in the UK, the pandemic could cost the country’s soccer, cricket and rugby union a total of more than $850 million, officials have warned.
At the moment, Gregorius says, men’s teams are actually losing more money than women’s teams because their overall ad revenue was higher to begin with, so resources are being poured into preparing men’s teams to resume playing as soon as possible.
“And the women — they get, I guess a little bit shafted. And that’s what we’re trying to fight against.”
Sarah Gregorius, FIFPRO
“And the women — they get, I guess a little bit shafted,” Gregorius said. “And that’s what we’re trying to fight against.”
The Football Association's former director, Dame Heather Rabbatts, says from a financial point of view, it actually makes a lot of sense to prioritize getting women’s teams back on television before men’s teams. Women’s games, she says, could be a more appealing option for advertisers who are facing tighter budgets.
Related: Women leaders eschew ‘macho-man’ politics in COVID-19 response
“If you are a media platform, a broadcaster, or a sponsor, women’s sport is still commanding way less premiums than their male counterparts,” Rabbatts said, adding that she also sees women’s ticket sales increasing post-pandemic.
“There’s a real sense of the passion and professionalism of women’s football without the same tribalism we have in some of the men’s game. And therefore, [it] has proven to be very attractive to families,” she said.
Vandervort and Gregorius, both of FIFPRO, say they’re “optimistic” that women’s soccer — and women’s sport, in general — will emerge from the pandemic with the same momentum that athletes and advocates worked for years to build.
“I think there’s a real opportunity to escalate the game beyond even where we were headed to before,” Vandervort said. “But that takes work. I don’t think that we can say today that that’s manifest destiny, by any stretch.”
The day Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern imposed a strict nationwide lockdown in March, no one in New Zealand had died from the coronavirus. Compare that to the United Kingdon: 335 people had already died by the time Prime Minister Boris Johnson ordered the British public to stay home.
Like many world leaders, Ardern held daily press conferences where she appealed to New Zealanders to unite in their battle against the virus. “We are all in this together,” she told them. Ardern streamed Facebook live videos from her sofa at home, apologizing for her casual attire.
Now, New Zealand is “halfway down Everest,” Ardern said last week as she announced measures to ease New Zealand’s lockdown.
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Her “go hard and go early” strategy combined with a warm empathetic manner worked. New Zealand recorded zero new cases of the coronavirus in a series of days last week and Ardern’s popularity rating is at an all-time high.
But Zoe Marks, a lecturer in public policy at the Harvard Kennedy School says there’s nothing inherently female about this style of leadership.
“The fireside chat approach originated with Franklin Roosevelt in the United States. The problem is not that only women can pull it off, it's that men are afraid to really let their guard down and be relatable,” Marks said.
Denmark’s Prime Minister Mette Frederiksen has not been afraid to show a more human side either. Frederiksen posted a video of herself and her partner doing the dishes and singing along during a weekly TV lockdown singalong show.
Norway's Prime Minister Erna Solberg speaks during a news conference on reopening society after the coronavirus disease (Covid-19) outbreak, in Oslo, Norway, May 7, 2020.
Credit:
Fredrik Hagen/NTB Scanpix via Reuters
Like New Zealand, Denmark moved quickly to close its borders, then its schools and businesses. Other Nordic countries led by women, like Norway and Finland, did likewise, and have seen relatively low death rates from COVID-19. Sweden’s Prime Minister Stefan Löfven, by contrast, took a gamble and shunned the idea of a lockdown, instead trusting the public to maintain social distancing themselves. It remains to be seen if his strategy pays off but currently Sweden’s death toll is by far the highest in Scandinavia.
Suze Wilson, who teaches leadership at Massey University in New Zealand, says the evidence is mixed on whether men and women govern differently. Some research shows female leaders can be more participative in their approach, she says.
“Research shows women are more willing to listen to advice and include different perspectives and try to weigh them up when making decisions,” Wilson said.
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But Wilson says it’s unhelpful to place too much emphasis on gender differences. Jennifer Tomlinson, professor of gender and employment relations at the University of Leeds, agrees. Tomlinson says the theory that men and women have distinctly different leadership styles is an outdated concept. She agrees that there is some evidence suggesting women in power are more open to accepting ideas and working with others but argues that there is nothing to stop men from doing the same.
“There is some evidence, slightly mixed, that maybe women are more collaborative in their style and that may be quite an effective approach to take. But it's not to say that men can't do collaborative leadership,” Tomlinson said.
Countries where leaders have listened to scientists' advice early in the crisis appear to have gained an upper hand in containing the virus.
In countries where leaders have listened to scientists' advice early in the crisis, they appear to have gained an upper hand in containing the virus. Iceland’s Prime Minister Katrín Jakobsdóttir and German Chancellor Angela Merkel introduced widespread testing early. Merkel, who has a Ph.D. in quantum chemistry, isn't known for having a warm approachable manner of the likes of Ardern — though she has earned the nickname mutti, or mommy. Merkel's approach is more stern and pragmatic. She warned Germans early on that 70% of the population may become infected, and in her press briefings, used simple scientific facts to explain her government’s strategy. But her direct approach is paying off. Germany’s death toll has stayed remarkably lower than neighboring France, or Spain and Italy.
Countries with male leaders, like South Korea, Vietnam and Greece, have certainly succeeded too in keeping infection rates down. And there are countries with women at the helm that haven’t fared so well, like Belgium, where the fatality rate is notably high, although Belgian officials argue that they are collating the figures differently than the rest of the world.
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Rosie Campbell, professor of politics at King’s College London, says that while the pandemic may have highlighted the success of female leaders, it has also more importantly shone a spotlight on the failed macho style of governance of some more populist leaders.
"We've had this tide of populist, macho strongmen leaders who have deliberately chosen to portray themselves that way, to be invulnerable.”
Rosie Campbell, King's College London
“We've had this tide of populist, macho strongmen leaders who have deliberately chosen to portray themselves that way, to be invulnerable. You know, it's an extreme leadership style,” Campbell said. “And I don't think in a crisis it’s a very effective one because actually you need to be able to have people speaking truth to power.”
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Campbell says leaders who are proving to be most effective are those who have shown some humility and vulnerability in the last few months. These traits tend to bring people together in support of their government. The hyper-masculine approach adopted by the likes of the US President Donald Trump and Brazilian President Jair Bolsonaro is failing to unite people behind their governments’ strategies, she added.
Bolsonaro has repeatedly downplayed the virus, saying for most people, himself included, it would be nothing more than “just a little flu.” Brazil has by far the highest death rate in South America. In the US, Trump said the government had the situation “completely under control” in February, and that everything would work out fine by April, when the weather gets warmer. Instead, America now has the highest death toll in the world with over 80,000 deaths.
Related: Bolsonaro’s ‘so what’ response to coronavirus deaths is the latest in his spiraling political crisis
With so much attention being paid to women leaders, it’s easy to forget that they lead less than 7% of UN countries. Wilson said the challenges facing women just accessing positions of power remain considerable. Those that make it often have to reach a far higher standard than their male counterparts, she added.
“It's a little bit easier for a relatively average man to slip through, but it's very, very difficult for a relatively average woman just to slip through.”
Suze Wilson, Massey University
“The chances of an average, kind of mediocre woman getting into power is very, very low indeed because the kinds of testing of their ability that they will be subjected to is so much greater,” Wilson said. “It's a little bit easier for a relatively average man to slip through, but it's very, very difficult for a relatively average woman just to slip through.”
Harvard lecturer Zoe Marks said society does not not have a good record in celebrating achievements by women.
Credit:
Courtesy of Zoe Marks
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Whether the praise many female leaders are receiving right now will have any impact on the numbers of women rising to the top remains to be seen. Harvard lecturer Zoe Marks said society does not have a good record in celebrating achievements by women.
“It's often the case — and research has demonstrated this — that we're more likely to credit a team than an individual woman who's leading a team than we are if it was a man in charge,” Marks said. “And we are also quicker to blame women for any failures.”
Marks says its contingent on everyone right now to recognize the success of these female leaders and also to upend the gender stereotype that women are less decisive and less confident than men. This pandemic has clearly shown that not to be the case, she said. Wilson is optimistic that the example women leaders are setting will have a positive impact on future generations.
“The fact that there are so many examples of women leading very well in this crisis will, I think, help offer more stories to tell little girls that are growing up, to give them the confidence and the ambition to aim for leadership.”
Above all, Wilson says she hopes it will show voters of both genders that women are more than capable of handling a global crisis.
“In fact, women are actually pretty damn good at it,” she said.
While in lockdown, Betina, a young woman in São Paulo, Brazil, stays busy cooking and working. She tries to stay calm by meditating. But Betina, who identifies as a lesbian, faces another challenge.
Her parents are homophobic, she said, and she doesn’t feel comfortable being herself while working from home because of the pandemic.
“My parents make sure I know they are not OK with my ‘choices’ every day. And being a lesbian made them so disappointed in me that no matter what I do, it’s never enough,” said Betina, who asked that her surname not be used to protect her identity. “I feel like I’m watching my life go by through somebody else’s eyes — because I’m not who they want me to be, but I also can’t be myself when I’m in their house.”
Betina is not alone. Many people who identify as LGBTQ are experiencing lockdown differently than their heterosexual peers — especially those stuck in homophobic homes. And LGBTQ organizations around the world are seeing significant upticks in calls for help.
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Switchboard, the UK’s leading LGBT+ helpline, says it's receiving 20% more calls, emails and instant messages than they did before the pandemic — and those numbers continue to rise.
“It’s really, really staggering,” said Natasha Walker, Switchboard’s co-chair. “I know we’ve spoken to people who’ve come out to their family as transgender or who’ve come out to their family as homosexual and the parents aren’t dealing with that very well. Those callers are contacting us because they think they’re about to be kicked out.”
Transgender and gender-nonconforming people are calling and messaging at an even higher rate, Walker said.
View this post on InstagramSwitchboard is a safe space to talk. We are here to listen from 10am to 10pm, 365 days a year ☎️📱💻 💬#safespace
A post shared by Switchboard LGBT+ Helpline (@switchboardlgbt) on May 4, 2020 at 7:30am PDT
“There could be numerous reasons for that,” she explained. “One thing we’re all very aware of right now is the pausing of gender-treating, gender-affirming surgery, and gender clinics having to shut down or really strip back their services.”
But for some, even getting on the phone is a risk. Many of the people under the age of 24 reaching out to Switchboard are contacting the organization via email and instant messaging services.
“There’s a real parallel between being able to reach out to us via instant messaging and email because of concerns about being overheard on the phone,” Walker said. “Especially within these different circumstances that people are finding themselves in, in lockdown.”
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Social media apps like Twitter and communication apps like WhatsApp are seeing a surge in use during COVID-19. But this extra time online does not correlate with a heightened feeling of connectedness — people are feeling more alone than before the coronavirus pandemic.
That feeling is compounded for some LGBTQ people in countries where homosexuality is still criminalized.
Shawna Stewart is the co-director of WE-Change, an organization that helps lesbian, gay and bisexual women in Jamaica, where homosexuality is illegal. Stewart said as unemployment rates increase and universities and schools are canceled, many younger queer people have had to move into hostile and homophobic living situations.
“This morning, someone called me to tell me that she lost her job, and she’s at home with her family,” Stewart said. “And it’s very, very difficult because she doesn’t have any money, and they are quite homophobic. And they’re making it difficult for her — not even giving her food.”
Stewart is working to get food to the girl, and also found her a therapist, who will work with her pro bono.
Jennifer Okoba, who works for an LGBT organization called One Action Foundation in Nigeria, where homosexuality is criminalized, said her organization is overwhelmed by the number of people who need support.
“Most of them requested, you know, monetary support, basic food items,” Okoba said. “And then some people just requested that they don’t really need anything, they just need someone to talk to.”
View this post on Instagram“If you have something to give, give it now.” A lot of people are counting on you to donate, please help out by sending in donations. Our DMs are open, we would be expecting a message from you. Thank you. #COVID19 #charity #Washyourhands
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Okoba and her team posted a survey online to see how many locals needed support. She thought maybe 20 people would reply. But 207 responses later, Okoba and her team made the difficult decision to pause the survey.
“If I’m thinking about supporting one person, that would be roughly $80. So if I have 207 people reach out to me, I don’t know where I’m going to get that amount of money to support everyone,” Okoba said. Right now, she only has enough resources to support about 10 people by sending food to their homes and calling them for regular check-ins.
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In Canada, homosexuality is not criminalized, but queer Canadians are also being disproportionately impacted by COVID-19, said Helen Kennedy, executive director of Canada’s leading LGBTQ organization, Egale. According to new research from Egale, LGBTQ Canadians are facing pay cuts and layoffs at a higher rate than straight and cisgender Canadians.
“A majority of the LGBT households — 53% — have been affected by layoffs or reduced hours as a result of the pandemic, compared to 39% of the overall Canadian population,” Kennedy said. “So, that’s dramatic.”
More research is needed to understand that gap in impact, she added.
“We can anecdotally describe that the majority of LGBTQ2IS community members are overeducated and underemployed — that the types of jobs they would have access to are more of your front line, server-type jobs,” Kennedy said. “But that’s very much a stereotype, at this point. And it’s a guess.”
View this post on InstagramFollowing our letter to @bardish_chagger , we request a #virtualmeeting on behalf of 100 orgs to discuss emergency support for vulnerable #2SLGBTQI people. Despite current efforts, many are being left behind during the #COVID19 pandemic. Read the open letter: https://bit.ly/34zCCAe
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The organization has called on the Canadian government to explicitly address the needs of LGBTQ people in its pandemic response and emergency preparedness planning, for example, by allocating funds and integrating LGBTQ stakeholders in housing projects and food security assistance.
The situation is also complicated by the fact that many people in the queer community have created “chosen families” outside of their biological relatives, she added.
“We don’t have the same family structures as our non-LGBTQI2S people have,” Kennedy said, referring to the term that stands for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer or questioning, intersex, and two-spirit. “If you are in a situation where you are isolated within a homophobic, transphobic, biphobic household for example, then that additional stress on your mental health and physical health just further compounds the problem.”
Betina, the young woman from Brazil, said she is reaching out to some of her LGBTQ friends to help her deal with isolation with her family. “It’s good to be able to talk with people who understand,” she said.
Walker, from the Switchboard helpline, said staying connected is the best thing for the queer community to do right now.
“One thing the LGBTQ+ communities have always done is evolve and adapt to changing situations. We’re a hearty bunch who are really, really good at supporting each other, at our core. And empathy — empathy binds us together,” Walker said. “So, yeah, I have no doubt that we’ll get through it, but it’s really important that we do that by supporting each other.”
The archbishop of the Church of Uganda has broken with tradition to publicly urge women to use birth control to avoid getting pregnant during the pandemic.
Stephen Kazimba Mugalu, who was enthroned as archbishop on March 1, put the onus on women to prevent unwanted pregnancies.
“I am really concerned [that] after [this] coronavirus situation, we will have many, many women who will be pregnant. Actually, we need to be careful. I want to call upon you women — don’t forget to use your contraceptives because we don’t want [you] to have unwanted pregnancies,” Kazimba said. “These guys are there; they are eating and doing things [having sex]. Be careful because these men, they don’t care. You women [must] be careful.”
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Uganda has one of the highest teen pregnancy rates in East Africa and sex education and access to contraceptives is limited.
The World's Marco Werman spoke with Primah Kwagala, a human rights lawyer in Uganda who focuses on the health rights of women
Marco Werman: What was your reaction, Primah, when you heard the archbishop's comments?Primah Kwagala: My reaction was a bit of shock. I could not believe that an archbishop could come out in support of the use and provision of contraceptives to women and girls in Uganda. For the longest time, religious entities have been the roadblock to access to contraceptives.
So, you're encouraged. What about the Ugandan public? How did they react?It is not easy to tell what the public is thinking right now because of a lockdown. We have a mandatory curfew beginning at 7 p.m. to 6:30 a.m., so most of us are home.
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So, are you surprised that the archbishop chose the pandemic lockdown as a time to promote birth control in Uganda?I am not particularly surprised because he's very new in the system. So, his message, that came when the Easter weekend was, I must say, received with mixed reactions. Because then there are people thinking: Are we sure he meant what he said? We are studying him. Because then, you know, they have meetings and protocol. So, it's not clear if he just said it in the heat of the moment or if it's something that he actually prepared to speak about because everyone was at home. And Ugandans are very religious people. Almost 80% of Ugandans subscribe to some Christian religion. So, the archbishop is actually held in very high regard. So, for him to say that was received with mixed reactions. Of course, for the rest of us health rights activists who are very excited about the message, we're promoting it. But then we don't know what will happen after.
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Yeah, what do you think will happen? Do you think this message from the archbishop will kind of take hold and be impactful?I think so. Because as activists, we tend to use it as an advocacy tool to encourage the government to avail and provide access to contraceptives for all women and girls of reproductive age, including those between the ages of 12 to 17 so that we can be able to prevent teenage pregnancies.
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Yeah. So, it sounds like faith makes a teen pregnancy and birth control generally a particularly thorny issue in Uganda. How does Uganda compare to other countries in East Africa on these issues?Compared to Kenya and Tanzania, Uganda's teenage pregnancy rates are quite high. Having a mind shift, I think, is really something we are struggling with. Amid this, the religious communities are in charge of the health and education sector in the region.
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Primah, I hear children in the background. Are kids in classes? How are you able to practice as a lawyer?Currently, even legal services have been rendered nonessential, so we are not working, except for very emergency cases, say if someone needs bail. Because there are lots of people being arrested for breaking the curfew.
This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.
Thousands of women may lose out on their chance to have a baby because of COVID-19. Fertility clinics across Britain shut their doors in mid-April, pausing in vitro fertilization (IVF) treatment for many women midcycle. The decision has left thousands in limbo. No one knows when the clinics will open up again and for those who have spent years trying to conceive — the closure is a cruel blow.
As lockdowns began, jokes were made about the baby boom in nine months' time. But it’s hard for some to see the funny side if they've been trying for a baby for years. Anita Brien in Hull, in northeast England, has tried to conceive for five years; Sian Brindlow in southern England has tried to conceive for 12 years. For these women, the quips can wear them down. Brien who’s 34, blocked some social media accounts because it was too upsetting to read the jokes. Comments by parents on Facebook about the trials of home-schooling have left her feeling empty, too.
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“I'd love to be getting annoyed with my children right now. I'd love to be not understanding the work that the school has sent home, but I can't because I don't have those children,“ she said.
Brien was only three days into her first IVF treatment when she received a text last month telling her to stop taking her medication. Her fertility clinic was closing down because of the coronavirus. Even though she was in the early stage of the cycle, Brien was heartbroken. After so many negative pregnancy tests, the IVF treatment had been the first positive step in her hope of having a baby.
“This was really positive, something really practical was going to happen. So, I was completely devastated,” she said.
But Brien, an events fundraiser, is practical, too. Her partner Matt is a paramedic and he’s seen the close-up impact of the virus.
As women across Britain began to receive the news that their treatments were being canceled, the Fertility Network, a national charity for people dealing with fertility issues, was inundated with calls. The organization's chief executive, Gwenda Burns, said women were distressed not just because their IVF was stopped, but because nobody could offer any guidance on what the next stage would be. But she thinks the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority, the British regulatory body, made the right call to order the clinics’ closure.
“I think for the safety of patients, the safety of embryos and of NHS [National Health Service] staff, there was no other actual way this could be done,” Burns said.
“We don't know how many months we’re going to have to wait now and, you know, we hear all these miracle stories of people conceiving well into their 40s. But that's what they are. They are miracles. They don't happen to everybody."
Sian Brindlow, teacher, West Sussex, England
In Britain, women are entitled to a number of free fertility treatments under the NHS but it varies depending on age and where they live. Sian Brindlow, a teacher in West Sussex, was on her third IVF cycle when she got the call saying her treatment needed to be postponed.
Like Brien, Brindlow understands the need to pause treatment, but worries about the time passing.
“We don't know how many months we’re going to have to wait now and, you know, we hear all these miracle stories of people conceiving well into their 40s. But that's what they are. They are miracles. They don't happen to everybody,” she said.
Related: Many people aren’t putting love on hold during COVID-19
Sian Brindlow and her husband Nick have struggled with fertility.
Credit:
Courtesy of Sian Brindlow
Brindlow says trying to have a baby has dominated her life and that of her husband Nick for over a decade. She says they naively thought it would just happen. Undergoing IVF treatment, she said, also gradually takes over your life.
“You know, your evenings are injections, your hormones are not your own. You can't plan any weekend breaks, you can’t plan any holidays."
Kirsty Duncan, 32, who lives in Cheshire, understands how all-consuming the experience can be. She says she is at the stage where many of her friends are getting pregnant, and she can’t help wondering when her time will come.
“It's an incredibly lonely place to be as a couple because, you know, you've got friends that are announcing pregnancies left, right and center. And you think why is it so easy for them? And it's not for us?”
Duncan, an early career manager and her husband, Adam, are open about their difficulties trying to conceive. Duncan posts updates on her Instagram account of their journey so far and says the community is hugely supportive. But she says some couples are very reluctant to discuss their fertility issues and wonders if it might come down to being British.
“I think there's this kind of British uneasiness about talking about something to do with sex, especially if your sex organs don't work. It’s like well, if they're talking about IVF, that means they must have had sex at some point in their life. And that's just that's too distasteful for us to talk about."
Kristy Duncan, early career manager, Cheshire, England
“I think there's this kind of British uneasiness about talking about something to do with sex, especially if your sex organs don't work. It’s like, well, if they're talking about IVF, that means they must have had sex at some point in their life. And that's just that's too distasteful for us to talk about,” she laughed.
It might also have to do with the advice people seem determined to dish out. Duncan says she’s heard countless suggestions about how she just needs to calm down and everything will work out fine.
“There's so many people that I know will just say, 'You just need to go on holiday. Get a dog, get drunk.' I would say the worst thing is when people say just relax.”
Related: Countries herald lifting of coronavirus lockdowns, but UK says not yet
Anita Brien and her partner Matt's fertility plans got interrupted by COVID-19.
Credit:
Courtesy of Anita Brien
Trying to remain calm while dealing with fertility issues during a pandemic is a challenge. But it’s not the biggest issue on Brien’s mind right now. She has another slightly unexpected concern. Chocolate.
“My biggest worry is how much chocolate I'm going to eat over the next few months,” she said.
It might sound frivolous, but there is a good reason for this. The NHS in Britain only funds your IVF treatment if your body mass index is under a certain number, and Brien, like most people right now, is trying not to comfort eat her way through the lockdown.
For many women, the pandemic is a reminder of just how little control they have over their lives. Brindlow says she is now leaving it up to fate to decide whether she’ll be a mother someday. If it's not meant to be, that’s OK, too, she said.
“We've had a lot of time just us two. You know, I only want kids with him, I don't want them with anyone else. And I know it sounds twee, but, you know, I'm really lucky I do have the love of my life. ... Not everyone has that.”
Five years ago on a summer day, Michelle said goodbye to her sister who told her she found a job in Austria. Her sister had a friend there, so it wasn’t completely out of the blue.
“When I hugged her, it didn’t feel like I was going to hug her for the last time,” said Michelle, who asked that her full name not be used and that her sister not be identified because she fears backlash against herself and her family.
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Michelle’s sister sent some pictures after she arrived in Austria, but then she went silent. Michelle said her sister was going through a rough patch. She grew up in a Christian family in Canada, but had converted to Islam. She had been through several unsuccessful marriages and struggled with her mental health.
“I could tell she was kind of cycling, like she’s going to do something because things weren’t going so well for her,” Michelle said. “I had some concerns about her when she did leave, but I thought, ‘Well, OK, maybe this will do her some good.’”
The next time that Michelle and her family heard about her sister was from the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. They told them she was in Raqqa, Syria, the capital of the so-called ISIS caliphate. Michelle’s sister had married a man online who was a member of ISIS, and she’d gone to Syria to join him.
Michelle never imagined her sister would take such actions. “What could I have done differently, and how did it ever get to be to this extent?” she wondered.
Today, Michelle is in touch with her sister and claims to have proof that she wasn’t involved in fighting for ISIS, but whether she’ll be allowed to return to Canada is unclear.
Since the fall of ISIS, countries have grappled with the question of what to do with individuals who left to join the group. Those suspected of having ties with ISIS face stigma back home. And now, there's a new threat: the coronavirus.
Michelle worries that her sister, now a mother of three, is especially vulnerable to the coronavirus in a camp in Syria. “She is malnourished. She's got broken teeth, and her hair and skin is a very strange texture. She is already in a fragile state.”
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Already dire circumstances As of Monday, 39 COVID-19 cases and three deaths have been reported in Syria. Health experts and aid workers warn that once the pandemic hits the area, it will spread through the camps very quickly.
The coronavirus pandemic has made it difficult to get aid to the camps in northern Syria. Borders are closed. Airports have shut down. Aid workers themselves have to take precautions so as to not spread the disease.
The Syrian civil war has severely impacted the health care infrastructure, and the camps especially, are not prepared to deal with an outbreak, said Sonia Khush, Syria response director for Save the Children. Crowded conditions will accelerate the spread of the virus, Khush added.
These concerns prompted the US-led coalition to deliver $1.2 million worth of medical supplies, such as latex gloves and masks, as well as surgical kits, defibrillators and oximeters to hospitals and detention facilities in northeastern Syria in late March.
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There are now only 28 intensive care unit beds and 11 ventilators in all of northeastern Syria, according to Khush.
“I mean the population of al-Hol camp is four times the density of New York City. So, the idea that all these social distancing measures can be easily put in place is just not realistic.”
Sonia Khush, Save the Children
“I mean the population of al-Hol camp is four times the density of New York City,” Khush said. “So, the idea that all these social distancing measures can be easily put in place is just not realistic.”
Already, the circumstances in the camps were dire. Last summer, representatives from Human Rights Watch visited the al-Hol camp three times. They found “overflowing latrines, sewage trickling into tattered tents, and residents drinking wash water from tanks containing worms. Young children with skin rashes, emaciated limbs, and swollen bellies sifted through mounds of stinking garbage under a scorching sun or lay limp on tent floors, their bodies dusted with dirt and flies.”
Aid groups and camp managers told Human Rights Watch that children were dying from acute diarrhea and flulike infections. Now, with the threat of the coronavirus looming, human rights watchers and local doctors are urging the international community to act to prevent an outbreak.
Foreigners flocked to Syria and IraqIn 2014, with the rise of ISIS, an increasing number of foreigners flocked to Syria and Iraq to join the group as fighters or to live under its rule. Among them were young women from Europe, Canada and the US. Some, like Michelle’s sister, got married online. Others married once inside the caliphate. Many became mothers.
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By 2017, the US-led coalition and local forces drove out ISIS from most of its territory. ISIS fighters were either killed or taken to prisons. In Syria, most of the women and children who survived the fighting ended up in camps in the Kurdish-held territory in the northeastern part of the country. Al-Hol and Roj are two of these camps.
Elizabeth Tsurkov, a fellow at the Foreign Policy Research Institute, explained that before the offensives against ISIS, al-Hol held displaced Syrians and Iraqis. Some were victims of the group’s brutal campaign to create a caliphate. These residents still live in the camp, Tsurkov said.
In early 2019, al-Hol became a holding place for families suspected of having ties with ISIS. The camps are administered by Kurdish authorities in northeast Syria.
“In the screening process, in most cases, children above the age of 12 were separated from their family and taken to prison,” she said. “Those who are at the camp are overwhelmingly women and children and are not suspected of carrying out any activities on behalf of ISIS. If such information reaches the Kurdish authorities, then they are arrested.”
According to a recent report by the International Crisis Group, al-Hol and Roj hold 66,000 and 4,000 women and children, respectively. Most are relatives of ISIS militants, but some are former affiliates of the group themselves. The majority are either Syrians or Iraqis, with the numbers roughly split, and around 13,500 are from other countries.
What to do with ISIS families Both the United States and the United Kingdom have revoked the citizenship of women who left to join ISIS. But they have also taken back some of their citizens. France, Germany, Belgium, the Netherlands and Norway have repatriated some citizens, most of them children. Canada is an outlier so far.
“Some countries are not interested in having any children back or anyone from the camp, no matter their age, due to political considerations essentially,” Tsurkov said.
“At the moment, we have 45 Canadians in al-Hol, camp Roj and the prisons in northeast Syria,” said Alexandra Bain, director of Families Against Violent Extremism, who adds that 27 of these Canadians are children.
Bain’s organization works mostly Canadian families who have had someone caught up in violent extremism. She wants the Canadian government to bring back all of its citizens, but especially the children.
“I think we owe it to ourselves to make sure that Canadian citizenship means something,” she said. “People have fought wars before. There have been camp followers before. We’re big enough to do this.”
“Each person’s story is different,” Bain said. “We’ve had cases where mental health has been a prominent factor; we have young women who went off in search of love and idealism; and we have a young man who was a sniper.” She believes they should all be brought back to Canada and properly investigated.
Investigating and prosecuting individuals with suspected ties to ISIS is one possible solution put forward by Brian Michael Jenkins, a terrorism expert and author of several books on the issue. But there are challenges.
“Ordinary courtroom requirements are difficult to meet in conflict zones.”
Brian Michael Jenkins, errorism expert and author
“Ordinary courtroom requirements are difficult to meet in conflict zones,” Jenkins writes in a piece for the Combating Terrorism Center at West Point.
“The countries from which ISIS children originate are confronted with a grave humanitarian crisis,” Mia Bloom writes in an essay. Bloom is a communication professor at Georgia State University and author most recently of “Small Arms: Children and Terrorism.”
She describes how ISIS took advantage of children to further advance its ideological goals.
“Given that ISIS indoctrination in many cases started at a very young age, the children have to unlearn their knowledge of the Islamic faith that was profoundly distorted by ISIS and re-learn basic life skills. They also should participate in vocational training to facilitate their transition to everyday life,” she writes in the essay.
The World contacted the Canadian Security Intelligence Service and asked about the repatriation of Canadian citizens, including Michelle’s sister, but did not receive a response.
Still, Michelle remains hopeful that her sister will be able to return to Canada — and that one day, she'll be able to hug her once again.
“I don’t condone anything that ISIS has done. They have done awful, awful things. I hate what they have done [...] but it’s not humane to keep somebody captive without letting them know when they can get out or give them access to legal help.”
Michelle, whose sister married a man who was an ISIS member and went to Syria to join him
“I don’t condone anything that ISIS has done. They have done awful, awful things,” Michelle said. “I hate what they have done [...] but it’s not humane to keep somebody captive without letting them know when they can get out or give them access to legal help.”
While cases of COVID-19 in Bangladesh have surpassed 1,200, none so far have been reported in overcrowded Rohingya refugee camps. Still, one refugee there, a mother named Chekufa Ra, speaking through an interpreter, described a feeling of overwhelming dread about what happens if there’s an outbreak.
Ra said clinics and schools have closed, and many volunteers are gone. It’s difficult to find food. And fear is rampant. The internet has been blocked, so many people don’t have basic information about the disease. There have been lots of rumors and misinformation about how the virus is spread.
Related: Racing to develop a drug to fight COVID-19
If there is an outbreak, the success of the response may depend in part on the status of women in the camps. That’s because women are the main caregivers when people fall ill — but they don’t usually have leadership roles in their communities.
“Within the overall structures in the camps, women are often not in decision-making positions. There are only 10 women police in the whole camp. But then at the same time, we see that there can be disproportionate impacts on women and girls.”
Marie Sophie Pettersson, United Nations Women
“And for that, we're particularly concerned because the Rohingya community as a whole is quite conservative and patriarchal,” said Marie Sophie Pettersson of United Nations Women. “Within the overall structures in the camps, women are often not in decision-making positions. There are only 10 women police in the whole camp. But then at the same time, we see that there can be disproportionate impacts on women and girls.”
Even before the coronavirus, she said, girls and women were trafficked and forced into marriage. Since the lockdown, levels of domestic violence have spiked. And now, because women are the caregivers, they’ll likely be among the first infected.
“This COVID-19 crisis could have devastating impacts if we don't prevent or mitigate the risks,” Pettersson said.
Related: Bolsonaro’s denial of coronavirus puts the country at risk
Genocide forced Rohingya to flee Myanmar in 2017. Nearly 900,000 people are packed into camps across Bangladesh. Ra was pregnant when she and her 4-year-old daughter walked for days to reach the camps in neighboring Bangladesh. She’s lived there now for three years with her husband and two daughters.
Ra said that before the genocide, many people in her family served as social workers and government officals, and she learned how to organize from them. Now, those skills have helped her take matters into her own hands. She’s leading a grassroots response to the COVID-19 crisis, building a network of 400 refugee women who are going door to door to educate people about the virus, and recruiting more women to help.
They’ve put together makeshift health clinics, and arranged transportation for people who might get sick. If an outbreak hits, Ra said, her group of women will be prepared to respond, no matter what the men say.
Related: Mutual aid groups respond to double threat of coronavirus and climate change
Humanitarian workers are also working to frantically produce videos and podcasts about how the infection spreads. Louise Donovan, of the Office of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees in Bangladesh, explained, “Not everybody is literate and there isn't a written Rohingya language, also — so, it's quite challenging.”
She said they’re also expanding medical and isolation facilities as much as possible, and taking steps to improve hygiene. “So, just huge distributions of soap across the camps, establishing hand-washing facilities at all distribution centers and every communal facility in the camp.”
“Everybody is looking for additional capacities and resources at the moment. I think at this time, it's very clear that this is a global problem and no population can be excluded from that.”
Louise Donovan, spokesperson, Office of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees in Bangladesh
There’s some capacity for COVID-19 testing, Donovan said, but more medical equipment and resources are needed. “Everybody is looking for additional capacities and resources at the moment,” she said. “I think at this time, it's very clear that this is a global problem and no population can be excluded from that.”
In some religions, chanting helps to settle the mind and prepare it for meditation. As much of the world lives in isolation due to the coronavirus outbreak, many have suggested using the time to meditate and be in the here and now.
Buddhists believe the path to enlightenment requires periods of detachment from the world — so self-quarantine offers an opportunity.
Karma Lekshe Tsomo is a Buddhist nun and social activist who splits her time between India and the US. She is from California and was an avid surfer growing up — a practice that she says helped prepare her to embrace Buddist teachings. After being ordained in 1977, she has worked on nonprofits focused on Buddhist women and education.
Lekshe is also a professor of Buddhism and world religions at the University of San Diego. She spoke with The World's Marco Werman about the role of meditation and reflection during the spread of COVID-19.
Related: 'Kung Fu' nuns empower women at risk of climate-caused trafficking
Marco Werman: Was there a moment in your life that prepared you for this pandemic?Karma Lekshe Tsomo: It happened to me in India about 30 years ago when I got bitten by a viper, a poisonous snake, and my whole world changed in that one moment. I faced death head-on for three months, not knowing from day to day whether I would be alive tomorrow. This really taught me the value of these teachings on how to be completely in the present moment. Let go of the past. Let go of the future, and focus completely on this precious, present moment.
So the teachings on impermanence, for example, teach that all things change. Why are we surprised? The Buddha taught that beings encounter unpleasantness and suffering in life. It's unavoidable. So again, why are we surprised? Clinging to our expectations that life is supposed to be a bowl of cherries only makes us unhappy and dissatisfied. If we accept the reality of the human condition, then we can accept these things. We can understand.
Related: How American Buddhism evolved into something distinct and its own
The narrative of many religions is one turns to God or Allah or Yaweh. What does Buddha tell you to do right now, as a Buddhist leader?There are so many different teachings and so many of them apply to this situation. Like, for example, a lot of people are feeling restricted. They're feeling angry. They're not liking confinement. And yet, our situation, whatever it may be, can't be compared to the sufferings of refugees in the camps, who are struggling even for water and food. So loving kindness is an excellent method for cutting through our own anger and aversion. Also, the teaching on compassion for the sufferings of others — not to turn away, but [use] whatever resources we have to try to contribute to relieve the sufferings of others.
Another teaching would be contentment. The Buddha said that contentment is the greatest wealth. So, no matter what inconveniences or sufferings that we are personally experiencing right now, contentment helps us to cope with unfulfilled situations and unfulfilled expectations. And it's a real remedy for dissatisfaction, the kinds of dissatisfactions that people are feeling by having to stay inside.
Right in the moment, though, for people who are facing death of a loved one or have just experienced that, what solace or guidance can Buddhism give them?Well, the Buddhist teachings give us lots of practices for how to calm the mind. So it may seem a bit idealistic, on the other hand, it could be survival, to cultivate a calm and quiet mind. If we're frantic, if we're panicked, we can't really be a resource for those around us. So they have a practice of mindfulness, of breathing. It's a very simple practice that can be done by anyone of any religion or no religion, just simply to be aware of the gentle flow of our breath as it flows in and flows out. In other words, to just calm down, be completely in the moment and be aware of our own breathing.
Another practice would be to be flexible, to be able to flow with the circumstances, pleasant or unpleasant. This is called the practice of equanimity. You know, usually we reel from, you know, highs and lows, and we're on a roller coaster of emotions. And in this case, we bring a suffering to ourselves and also disturb those around us. So if we can handle any circumstance calmly, then we'll be happier campers. And the people around us will certainly appreciate it, too.
Related: When does life begin? It might depend on your faith.
I just want to point out that your childhood was spent in Southern California and you're a surfer — were, anyway. I think surfers, it's a lifelong thing. You were top-ranked in your teens, though. Do you still surf? What is the connection to Buddhism?Well, when I was young, my whole life was surfing. I mean, I dreamed surfing. So I am very grateful for being in touch with the ocean, having this opportunity to be in solitude. It gave me a kind of perspective. You know, when you're out in the ocean waiting for a set, you see the world from a different viewpoint. You recognize that you're basically alone in the universe, but also that you're not the most important thing in the universe. So I'm really grateful for that. You learn to be quiet in the present moment, to be prepared for any situation.
This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.
Since the coronavirus outbreak began earlier this year, millions of people across the world have been ordered to stay home under the assumption that home is the safest place for them.
But what if home itself isn't safe? That's the case for many survivors of domestic violence who are now stuck with their abusers for long periods of time, unable to get help.
Some countries are trying to step in. France, for example, is funding hotel rooms for survivors of domestic violence.
In China, domestic violence cases reported to police in one county tripled during Feburary. Europe is also now seeing a surge of cases.
Laura Albu is the vice president of the European Women's Lobby, a network of women’s associations across the European Union. She spoke to The World's host Marco Werman about what organizations are doing to protect people made vulnerable to abuse because of lockdowns.
Related: COVID-19: The latest from The World
Marco Werman: What new challenges is COVID-19 presenting to your work supporting survivors of domestic violence?Laura Albu: The number of calls to the helpline are dropping. Usually women are calling these lines while being safe, while their abuser is not at home.
And with the abuser at home, I suspect the victim is far less likely to pick up the phone and call for help. Aside from leaving home and ending up possibly homeless, what options do survivors have to seek help when they're at home with their abuser? Actually, we're trying this campaign related to pharmacies. Women going in for medicine can ask for the "Mask 19," which is a code for the pharmacies to know that the women is in danger. She cannot talk because she is accompanied by the abuser, usually, so [pharmacists] can call the emergency 112 for them.
Related: Three sisters' case highlights domestic violence in Russia
So the woman — the victim, in this case — would go to the pharmacy and tell the pharmacist, "I want Mask 19." And they would know what that means. They would know that they're at home with an abuser. Yes. We know that the abuser is not only controlling their life, their daily life, in a normal way, but also their phones, their computers. We tried to see right now how to reach them through messages in tampon boxes or detergent boxes. This kind of information — because we know usually men are not willing to wash clothes or do anything — laundry — in the house.
I mean, these sound like innovative and smart solutions. But I would think ultimately women and girls would most benefit from strong government policies and reforms. You focus on Europe. What type of legislation would you like to see in place that would address the dilemma of women and girls who might find themselves in isolation with an abuser? When we have only men around the table discussing women's issues and how is COVID affecting women — and that's a topic discussed by men. And we see that also on the news, and we have seen also on the television shows, and all the time the experts who are there are men discussing women's problems. So it's funny, but, so, you see that women are holding [up] and supporting the society right now. But they are not the ones in charge of allocation of resources, and they are not in charge of coordination of emergency services.
Related: These Argentine women fight against a justice system 'written by men'
Right. The World Health Organization says that women make up 70% of health and caretaking roles. So do you think women and girls are disproportionately affected by COVID-19? I can't say that it's a good moment. It's just an awakening moment for society because people say they want to go back to normal. But what was normal before, for the women, it was something which was not seen in terms of inequalities. And it's just right now much more obvious how much women are taking care of our economy and how much women are taking care of the entire society. So actually, I think the disproportionate burden on women needs to be tackled. Maybe other crises in the future could be better coordinated if women are also in the teams who are working on that.
This interview has been condensed and edited for clarity.
In Mexico, women are having a historic moment. On Sunday, International Women's Day, tens of thousands took to the streets to demand an end to gender-motivated violence. Many are also following up this past weekend’s action by another form of protest Monday — staying home, not going to work, disappearing from public life.
The idea of women striking has existed for years in different parts of the world, but this year in Mexico, it’s taken on a new life with the horrific, back-to-back murders of a young woman and a 7-year-old girl.
Related: Women's shelters in Mexico struggle to survive amid rise in femicides
Véronica Berber Calle is a criminal attorney who works on human rights topics in Mexico City. She says the strike is meant to show just how exasperated women are by the daily aggressions and violence they suffer, and the lack of attention to these issues.
Support for the strike has cut across class lines. Government and business officials stood behind it. The mayor of Mexico City told the city’s 150,000 female workers they could stay home although they wouldn’t be paid. Walmart said it would allow its female workers time off to join the strike. So did other big companies.
One business group said the strike would cost Mexico’s economy more than a billion dollars.
Related: 'Die, bacteria, die': Mexican nurses croon in hand-washing PSA video
And if Monday’s strike is about showing what life in Mexico looks like without women, Sunday was the opposite. Tens of thousands of women took to the streets in Mexico City and across the country for International Women’s Day.
There were young women like Mariana Hernández. She’s 23 and a college student.
She says she wants to feel safe and for her parents not to worry if something bad will happen to her after class. And like a lot of young women, she was here with her mom — Raquel Rochalo, who says the growing feminist movement is creating change even at home.
She says her son and husband are more aware, sensitive. This is the first time Rochalo has participated in a march on International Women’s Day.
“I feel very proud to be here,” she said. “Emotional. For the girls who have been raped and killed, we have to unite.”
To listen to the full story, click the audio player above.
The morning after Colombia’s Constitutional Court upheld a restrictive abortion law this week, two Congress members from opposing parties phoned into one of the country’s most popular radio shows and debated the decision.
Rep. Juanita Goebertus, a member of the left-leaning Green Alliance party, favored expanding women’s access to abortion procedures, while Sen. Jhon Milton Rodríguez, a member of the evangelical Free and Just Colombia party, favored further restricting access.
Goebertus and Rodríguez answered questions from the hosts of radio station La W’s morning program about abortion access in Colombia. But when they were asked about it legally being a right, the conversation quickly devolved into an almost indiscernible crossfire of Goebertus saying Rodríguez was entitled to his own opinion, but not his own facts, and Rodríguez telling her he just wanted to explain things to her.
Related: 'Maternity jail': Women in US, Argentina, finds ways around restrictive abortion laws
Just before the hosts wrapped up the segment, Goebertus read from an earlier court ruling: It referred to abortion as a "right."
Debate over abortion rights across Latin America, as in other parts of the world, has often been adversarial, and supporters and opponents from across the continent followed the Colombian court’s decision. They are looking forward to pending legislation that would legalize elective abortions in Argentina.
On Monday night, Colombia’s Constitutional Court voted to uphold a previous ruling that allows the procedure when a woman’s life is at risk, the fetus is malformed or the pregnancy is a result of rape.
Tens of thousands of women in both countries have been taking to the streets to demand legal access to reproductive health rights, but have faced opposition, as public opinion is mixed in their largely Catholic and often conservative societies. In Colombia, less than half the people polled by the magazine Semana in 2017 believed a woman should not go to jail for having an abortion.
Related: Photos: The women of Argentina's abortion debate
"When you talk about abortion, it becomes very heated, very fast," said Dr. Maria Vivas, a physician who directs the Bogotá-based Fundación Oriéntame, which provides women’s health services, including abortions.
Some 400,000 induced abortions are performed in Colombia every year, and only a fraction of them are done legally, according to the US-based Guttmacher Institute. About a third of women who have illegal procedures experience complications that require medical attention, according to the institute.
"If you pay attention to the arguments to decriminalize, to totally decriminalize abortion, they’re robust, public health-based arguments," Vivas said.
In Argentina, President Alberto Fernández said on Sunday that he will send a bill to Congress to legalize abortion. The pending legislation follows years of demonstrations that have been led by feminist groups across the country, said Victoria Freire, who runs the Observatory for Gender and Public Policy, a think tank in Buenos Aires.
"The law is possible not only because of this new political willpower," Vivas said.
Similarly to how the #MeToo movement in the United States or protests against femicide in Mexico have gotten some response from lawmakers in those countries, Vivas said, feminist movements are transforming life across the continent.
Women in cities across Mexico have been protesting almost daily in response to two horrific murders in Mexico City this month. Ingrid Escamilla, who was 25, was reportedly murdered and mutilated by her boyfriend, and Fátima Cecilia Aldrighett, who was 7, was abducted as she left school and found dead in a rural area.
Related: Instagram art project spreads awareness about femicides in Mexico
They are among the victims of an astonishing level of violence against women in Mexico — an average of 10 women were killed every day last year, according to official government figures. And among many activists responding is Estefanía Vela Barba, an attorney who directs Intersecta, a Mexico City-based nongovernmental organization working to end gender discrimination. Vela Barba spoke with The World’s host Marco Werman.
Marco Werman: President Andrés Manuel López Obrador says this is not about gender violence. He, instead, says it fits within overall violence in Mexico. What do you make of that?Estefanía Vela Barba: There is a part of what the president says that is true. The murders of women in Mexico started rising at the same time the murders of men in Mexico started rising at the end of 2007, when the so-called war on drugs began. So, on that point, what the president says is true. The problem, though, is that when you say only that, you ignore important differences in the way men and women are killed.
What would you say are the aspects of violence against Mexican women today that you believe makes what we are seeing femicide? For example, it is much more common for women to be strangled than men. It is much more common for women to be killed with a knife or with a blunt object. It is also more common for women to be victims of sexual violence, either before, during or after their murder. It is also more common for women to be killed at home, and it is more common for women to be killed by their intimate partners. And I think the cases that have been mediatized in the last few months are examples of this.
There is the case of Ingrid, who was killed by her partner, and who months before her killing had filed an intimate partner violence complaint with authorities. But authorities did not do enough to help her get out of that relationship, and the result was that this man killed and tortured her. We saw another case this past weekend with Fátima, a 7-year-old girl who was abducted, raped and then killed and left in a trash bag. It is important for us to see these important ways in which women are killed. We need to take everything into account and design policies that are able to give women a way out and not experience this violence.
You see that distinction, but it appears many people across Mexico share López Obrador's opinion that this really is all just part of the context of overall violence in Mexico. Why do you think that is such a common perspective?This is something we see not only in Mexico, but in other countries. In the United States, the battle over Black Lives Matter and the Blue Lives Matter response is an example of how when groups try to draw attention to the fact that some groups don’t actually enjoy equal rights, there is a formulaic idea of equality that kicks in. People think that by pointing out differences, you are somehow saying that men’s lives don’t matter. But what we’re saying is that these are the facts. And if we don't recognize that murders don't just happen in the street, but they also happen in the home, you’re never going to arrive at solutions that address both problems.
You've been a very visible advocate for women's rights in Mexico for years. You're a researcher, but you also have the video blog "Estereotipas" and you’ve written for several of Mexico’s mainstream publications. Have you yourself faced harassment because of your work and how do you deal with it?Whenever you try to challenge the way things are, there will be a reaction. Most women I know that have raised their voice have, in one way or another been questioned about why they’re putting forth these issues, or the issues themselves have been disqualified. Every time there is a protest, there is a reaction.
Have you been protesting? Do you plan on taking part in future protests?Yes. As you know, the 8th of March will be the International Women's Day. It's an important day to reflect on what is the status of women's rights. And we need to demand more, especially considering that the authorities’ response has been to focus on criminalization, increasing penalties that are high already. I think that that's also part of the problem, not just the violence, but the way authorities handle the murders and the supposed solutions that they propose, which are punitive solutions that do nothing to change the reality of what is happening. So, I think that, yes, protests are necessary protests in every way possible and fighting together to demand more.
This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.
Alyona Savranenko grew up in a small village in central Ukraine. She had a modest upbringing, one she loved — featuring unpaved roads, cows grazing in the field and mushroom picking in the forests.
She enjoyed swimming in the lake throughout the summer and ice skating on it during the winter. When Savranenko turned 6, she started writing poetry, and when she was a bit older, she would write pop songs.
Then she turned 12, and hip-hop found her.
“The first raps I heard were probably American — Eminem. I started translating them.”
Alyona Alyona
“The first raps I heard were probably American — Eminem. I started translating them,” she said. “I looked for his texts, memorized them, and he influenced my flow the most. I liked his style. And I started translating lots of other rappers that I listened to. I was curious what they were rapping about. But I’d always rap about something of my own.”
Today, Savranenko, a former kindergarten teacher, is the biggest rapper in Ukraine. Her music videos — which touch on subjects ranging from body positivity to bullying and female empowerment — rack up millions of views on YouTube, and she has been on multiple European tours. The hugely popular 28-year-old prides herself on defying the stereotype of what rappers look like in Eastern Europe and the rest of the world.
Something about hip-hop clicked with Savranenko. There was space and freedom to express herself — like the poetry she used to write, but without all the rigid rules.
Related: Ukrainian folk punk band DakhaBrakha sings a decidedly feminist message
Ukrainian rap, gangsta styleHip-hop in Ukraine became popular by the late 1990s. It largely emerged from Kharkiv, a city in eastern Ukraine not far from the Russian border, says Adriana Helbig, an associate professor of music at the University of Pittsburgh.
“That was the home of a group called Tanok na Maidani Kongo ["Dance on Congo Square"], and they had won a Ukrainian-language festival competition with their rap, 'Make me a hip, make me a hop,'” said Helbig, author of “Hip Hop Ukraine: Music, Race and African Migration.” “That's what sort of established hip-hop as a genre — a legitimate genre, a Ukrainian-language genre. Until then, anything that was coming into Ukraine was English language and also it was much more dominated by the Russian-language sphere.”
As Savranenko got older, writing rap lyrics became part of her life.
“I started writing first not about some fantasy stories or made-up fairy tales, but about what was happening around me,” she said. “Some of the stuff that I was rapping about, though, wasn’t even very truthful. I really wanted the Ukrainian rap community to accept me, so I rapped about using drugs and some of the street life that I saw around me — the kind of lifestyle that wasn’t really mine.”
Early hip-hop in Ukraine was hugely influenced by African American and Russian rap, Helbig said, where violence and drugs are major themes.
“And the reason was, in part, because [Ukrainian rappers] were growing up in the sort of impoverished urban areas on the outskirts of cities,” she said. “These guys are reacting to the videos that they're seeing coming out of the United States, so they were very much replicating and connecting with this form of poverty, alienation, everything else.”
Related: Ukraine's Eurovision 2016 entry is about Stalin’s repression, and Russia isn't thrilled
When she first started rapping, Savranenko also embraced American gangsta-style rap because she thought that’s what hip-hop was supposed to be about.
“But I wasn’t gangster and criminal. I was just a teacher in the kindergarten, but all the rappers respected me.”
Alyona Alyona
“But I wasn’t gangster and criminal. I was just a teacher in the kindergarten, but all the rappers respected me,” she said.
Savranenko kept her job as a kindergarten teacher, but she also kept rapping and getting more attention.
Eventually, she took on the rap name Alyona Alyona, writing lyrics in Russian because many of the rappers she listened to were Russian.
The popular 28-year-old Alyona Savranenko prides herself on defying the stereotype of what rappers look like in Eastern Europe and the rest of the world.
Credit:
Courtesy of Alyona Alyona/Instagram
Language politics During the Soviet period, the Russian language dominated the official political and cultural sphere. But after Ukraine became independent from the Soviet Union in 1991, there was a rise in Ukrainian language use. Still, when it comes to rap, the politics around language have been more practical, Helbig said.
Related: This Ugandan rapper was ‘miseducated,’ Lauryn Hill-style
“For instance, a lot of the musicians that I would talk to just said that it was easier to rap in Russian because you could curse,” Helbig said. Russian-language profanities are commonly used throughout the former Soviet Union, and some artists say it sounds more aggressive.
The politics between Russian and Ukrainian language have now started to soften, Helbig said, partially because younger people have more access to learning and using Ukrainian. But in 2014, Ukraine went through the Revolution of Dignity, where Ukrainians started expressing a stronger sense of pride in Ukrainian language.
Savranenko said she felt the same. She read more Ukrainian literature, and she was teaching mostly in Ukrainian.
“My vocabulary in Ukraine language was bigger and bigger, and I start[ed] rapping in Ukrainian language.”
Alyona Alyona
“My vocabulary in Ukraine language was bigger and bigger, and I start[ed] rapping in Ukrainian language,” she said.
It's a linguistic trend that's playing out across Ukrainian hip-hop.
“There's much more of a wide range of ideas that you can express in Ukrainian and also the hip-hop itself is changing, which might account for Alyona Alyona a little bit,” Helbig said. “Ukraine has sort of been blossoming and really moving into its revival of folk, and it has all these very interesting dynamics that they're trying to push into their own identities. And women have a very important role.”
Ukrainian has also been historically gendered, she added.
“Russian tends to be more of a masculine way, and Ukrainian tends to be positioned as the more the feminine way,” Helbig said, adding that Ukraine is often figuratively depicted as a woman taken captive by Russian soldiers.
That might be evident in Savranenko's music, too.
'I just accepted myself'The song “Ribky,” which translates as “fish,” was Alyona Alyona's first hit, with more than 2 million views on YouTube.
At face value, the song is simply about the title animal — the way they look, and the way they swim. But a deeper listen reveals more — and the song is really about how powerful fish can be, Savranenko said.
“Most people understood what the song was about. That it’s not about fish and water, but about girls,” she said.
At the time Savranenko was growing up, Ukraine had a “very gendered division of society” — a backlash to the “gender neutrality” presented in the Soviet Union, Helbig said.
“The reaction to that in the early 1990s is you have this hypermasculinity of this machismo mafia type [and] the women were being pushed into the hypersexualization of, like, prostitution,” Helbig said. “There's a lot of violence against women. There's a lot of rape. … This is very much playing out, especially in the villages.”
Alyona Alyona's music looks at girls and their place in society — girls who are bullied because they’re different, and girls who face abuse for their weight or their style. Body positivity is also a big theme in her music.
“One of the things I was thinking of is really just how powerful [Alyona Alyona] is and what kind of statement she's making.”
Adriana Helbig, University of Pittsburgh
“One of the things I was thinking of is really just how powerful [Alyona Alyona] is and what kind of statement she's making,” Helbig said.
The track “Pushka,” which roughly translates to “the bomb,” takes on the subject as well. In it, Alyona Alyona calls herself a “pishka,” a Ukranian word used as an insult for people who are overweight.
But Alyona Alyona appropriates the word — she makes it her own, and carries herself with swagger.
“That’s part of my life. I’ve encountered a lot of body shaming, fat shaming, bullying in my life. But mostly it’s people who motivate me because they keep asking, 'How can you be so cool?'” she said. “I tell them I’m like everyone else, I just accepted myself the way I am. I realized people need my experience and I started sharing it. With some — in messages, with others — in songs.”
Alyona Alyona embraces a positive message in her music.
Credit:
Courtesy of Alyona Alyona
And Alyona Alyona hasn’t wavered from that positive message. She rarely curses in her music, and that gangsta-rap style from her early days is long gone.
One of her recent tracks is all about standing up to bullies.
“We decided to make a music video where I play different characters: a goth, a basketball player and others — showing this way that every person has a second half of themselves,” she said. “We shouldn’t be afraid to be ourselves, shouldn’t be afraid to resist, to stand strong against bullying. We shouldn’t be silent about it. It’s necessary to pull out that other half and fight.”
In Ukraine, Alyona Alyona is one of the country’s top artists, and she’s toured all over Europe.
“So, I thank God that I have [the] possibility to introduce my country and my music in European countries, and I will be do[ing] this in the future because I don’t want to rap in other languages,” she said. “I’m not ready, I don’t have so many words to sing in English or in Russian. I want to do it in Ukrainian.”
Helbig says Alyona Alyona is also helping combat Ukraine's history of generational trauma.
In Ukraine, “anxiety among everyday people is extremely high, and here you've got this kid that's, you know, happy. … 'Let's smile. Let's rap about fish. Life's great.' And it's like, what is this person doing?” Hebig said. “But on the other hand, you almost can't help but embrace it.”
Flutist and composer Nathalie Joachim first came up with the idea for her debut album in late 2015. She was in Haiti, exploring her Haitian heritage and wanted to know about female artists from the island. Together with her parents, she could only come up with a dozen or so.
"I was really inspired to make an album centered around the voices of female artist from Haiti largely because they're left out of Haiti's musical history."
"I was really inspired to make an album centered around the voices of female artists from Haiti largely because they're left out of Haiti's musical history," she said.
Some women on the list included singer Emerante de Pradines, Milena Sandler (daughter of Toto Bissainthe), and vodou revolutionary Carole Demesmin.
Joachim's Grammy-nominated album, "Fanm d'Ayiti," sets out to correct some of the omissions of women underrepresented in Haitian history. She thinks this is "a beautiful way to represent the women of Haiti."
"Fanm d'Ayiti" translates into "Women of Haiti." On the album, Joachim features new song arrangements and snippets from recorded interviews with some of the women. One voice heard is that of Joachim's own musical hero and maternal grandmother, Ipheta Bellegarde, because "her voice was one that was quite important to me throughout the course of her life."
The song featuring Bellegarde's voice is also one her grandmother wrote. It's called "Madan Bellegarde." Bellegarde died in 2015. Joachim says her grandmother was "criticized her whole life because she became a widow when my mother was still an infant, quite young, and never remarried. She really chose to live a life independently of her own design."
Joachim would often hear her grandmother share stories about what life was like as a single mom in Haiti in the late 1940s and early '50s. She says her grandmother wrote the song because she was being "judged by all of the sinners around her, people who committed much grander sins than being an unmarried woman, but that she knew at the end of the day she would not be judged by God. And so she wrote this song and would sing it." Now, Joachim sings it.
Video of "Madan Bellegarde" - An Excerpt from Nathalie Joachim's "Fanm d'Ayiti"
Joachim also recorded with a girls' choir in her family's farming village Dantan. "[It's] a very small place with just one street that has a church and a school and that's it," she said. "And I hope that any one of them, if not all of them, are inspired by how we've been able to spread their voices from this small spot in Haiti across the world."
Joachim says she hopes her album touches young women everywhere and that they will "take away the strength and the power and continue to lift each other up ... [and to] look to your elders and find strength in their stories and to be sure to leave a pathway for those coming up behind you. We're all connected."
In May, Chantal Monté sat down with her husband to celebrate her 72nd birthday. He killed her exactly one month later.
The tragedy made Monté the 78th victim of femicide in France in 2019. While the definition of femicide varies around the world, in France, it typically means when a woman is killed by a partner or ex-partner. There have been 116 femicides in France so far in 2019, according to Agence France Presse, a French press agency. Meanwhile, the advocacy group Femicides by Companions or Ex brings the total to 138.
Related: These Argentine women fight against a justice system 'written by men, for men'
In France, one woman is killed every three days. Women ages 65 and over make up about a quarter of all victims of femicide, but they’ve largely been left out of the discussion — or their deaths have been misclassified as mercy killings and suicide pacts.
“People don’t care,” said Nadia Neubacher, the daughter of Monté. Neubacher lives in Michigan with her family, but in May, she traveled more than 4,000 miles to southern France so she could join the celebrations for her mom’s birthday. She said everything seemed normal.
Nadia Neubacher (left) with her mom, Chantal Monté, during a visit to Michigan in 2003.
Credit:
Courtesy of Nadia Neubacher
“I figured if something was wrong she would have left, but she never hinted ... we didn’t see anything,” she said.
In late June, Monté’s husband killed her using a shotgun as she was sleeping. Then he killed himself. She was 72. He was 89. They had been together for 20 years. Neubacher said she didn't know what motivated the murder.
Related: This Turkish filmmaker uses wedding dresses to discuss femicide
“I don’t know if it’s because of the way they were raised [as a] a generation and that’s something they don’t talk about? I have no idea.”
Particularly in the case of older women, it’s not uncommon for abuse to go on for decades in secret.
“They’re paralyzed by the thought that nobody will believe them. ... On top of that, elderly women become convinced that if they speak up, people will respond with skepticism..."
Annie Guilberteau, director, National Federation of Information Centers on Women’s and Families Rights
“They’re paralyzed by the thought that nobody will believe them,” said Annie Guilberteau, the director of the National Federation of Information Centers on Women’s and Families Rights, an association that provides support for domestic violence victims in France.
Guilberteau said perpetrators often use manipulation tactics to convince victims that the abuse is their fault. In elderly cases, this grip has often been sustained for decades.
“On top of that, elderly women become convinced that if they speak up, people will respond with skepticism,” she said. “They’ll ask something like, ‘Well, if this has been going on for thirty years, why did you wait until now to say anything?’”
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According to a government poll that surveyed women from 2012-2018, around 219,000 women are victims of domestic abuse every year in France. But it’s difficult to know to what extent elderly women are affected because the poll only surveyed women between the ages of 18-75 years old. The lack of statistics has led some in France to refer to older women as the “forgotten victims” of domestic violence.
When speaking about her mother, Neubacher’s eyes light up. She loves talking about her mom.
“I could talk about my mom for hours and still come nowhere close to doing her justice,” she said.
She added that Monté was smart and had a contagious smile. She also loved to travel and take care of animals. She had cats, dogs and, at one point, she even adopted two donkeys.
“My sister and I were like, ‘Why are you doing this mom?!’ And she would just say, ‘I love donkeys.’”
Her mom was full of life “in every way,” Neubacher said. “So, for her husband to decide to kill her ... it was not my mom’s choice.”
But that’s exactly what some people suggested in the aftermath of the murder. At one point, there were rumors in the village of Bardos that Monté had died as part of a suicide pact with her husband. Neubacher believes people downplayed her death because she was an older woman.
“I understand my mom was 72 years old, but it does not make it OK to throw her life away like that ... to sweep it under the rug,” she said.
Related: Instagram art project spreads awareness about femicides in Mexico
Earlier this month, investigators in Normandy were criticized for classifying a similar case of a couple in their 80s as a suicide pact.
And in July, there were headlines about an 83-year-old anesthesiologist who killed his 81-year-old ailing wife. In a letter, the husband wrote it had become too difficult for him to look after his wife, who was suffering from Alzheimer's.
These cases have generated debate about the issue of mercy killings and lack of support for older couples. But Neubacher said none of that makes what happened to her mother acceptable.
“Labeling any murder a mercy killing is absolutely idiotic. ... It’s a murder, let’s call it what it is. You can put a fancy word in front of it and it’s still a killing.”
Nadia Neubacher, daughter of femicide victim Chantal Monté
“Labeling any murder a mercy killing is absolutely idiotic,” she said. “It’s a murder, let’s call it what it is. You can put a fancy word in front of it and it’s still a killing.”
On Monday, Nov. 25, French Prime Minister Edouard Philippe announced the government would invest an additional $396 million in domestic violence prevention efforts, including the creation of 1,000 new women’s shelters and a 24-hour domestic abuse hotline.
Activists have criticized the government’s response as “not up to par,” with some expecting the government to put forth $1.1 billion in the fight against domestic violence.
Neubacher said she didn’t even know her mom was a victim of femicide until she got a call from “Femicides by Companions or Ex,” the group that tracks femicides across the country.
“And they told us it doesn’t matter how old the woman is,” Neubacher said. “It does not matter, she’s still a victim of femicide.”
Shortly after the murder, members of the association organized a march in Bardos, the town where Monté lived. On Nov. 25, a nationwide march against femicide drew in tens of thousands of people, including 49,000 in Paris alone. It was the city’s largest march against domestic violence to date.
As for Neubacher, she’s justholding onto things that keep her mom’s memory close, such as her favorite pair of glasses.
“... I refused to clean them. They were found on the table next to her. So...that is her.”
Hanim Tosun feels at home at the Istanbul office of the Human Rights Association, also known as the IHD, its acronym in Turkish. It was here that she and a group of Kurdish women launched the first Saturday Mothers vigil 24 years ago.
The Saturday Mothers is one of the longest-running peaceful protest movements in the world. On Saturdays since 1995, the women would gather in Istanbul's Galatasaray Square, a popular pedestrian shopping area, to demand the whereabouts of their sons, fathers and husbands who disappeared after Turkey's 1980 military coup. Their protest was inspired in part by the Argentine women in white who demanded to know the fates of loved ones who disappeared during their country's dictatorship.
Today, Turkey's Saturday Mothers continue to meet in Istanbul — at the IHD office. And while many of the founding protesters are growing frail, their daughters are taking the reins. Some men have joined the movement, as well.
Hanim Tosun’s husband, Fehmi Tosun, was among hundreds of Kurds who disappeared in the ’80s and ’90s, when Turkey’s conflict with its minority Kurdish population was at its height. Anyone who sympathized with Kurdish separatists could be targeted.
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In the wake of another war Turkey is now waging against the Kurdish region of Syria, many Kurds fear that more of their loved ones will be kidnapped by militias and authoritarian regimes.
US troops are crossing into Iraq as part of a broader withdrawal from Syria ordered by President Donald Trump, a decision that allowed Turkey to launch an offensive against the Syrian Democratic Forces, which for years was a US ally battling ISIS. (SDF is a leftist Syrian Kurdish militia considered terrorists by Turkey.)
Turkey agreed to pause its offensive for five days under a deal with Washington. The truce expires late on Tuesday, just after Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan is set to discuss next steps in the region at a meeting in Russia with President Vladimir Putin.
‘They’re going to catch me. They’re going to kill me.’The last time Hanim Tosun saw Fehmi Tosun was October 1995. She was upstairs in their Istanbul apartment when the yelling started. It was around 7 p.m., and a group of men were taking him away.
“He was shouting a lot. He tried not to get in the [men’s] car, but they forced him to get in the car ... they were dragging him in. While I was trying to go downstairs, I yelled, ‘Get that car's license plate,’” she said.
Her daughter, Jiyan Tosun, who was 9 years old at the time, heard her father scream. “[He shouted,] ‘They’re going to catch me. They’re going to kill me,’” Jiyan Tosun said. “I ran downstairs. My brother ran up to the car, but my father told him to let go because they might do the same to him.”
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They never heard from Fehmi Tosun again.
“We didn't understand that it was undercover policemen at first.”
Hanim Tosun, Saturday Mothers
“We didn't understand that it was undercover policemen at first,” who took her husband away, Hanim Tosun said.
Fehmi Tosun is among at least 1,300 Kurds who have disappeared in Turkey’s conflict with its minority Kurdish population since 1935, according to Maside Ocak, a researcher with Turkey's Human Rights Association. Only 200 bodies of Kurds who've been killed have been identified, she said.
Her own brother, Hasan Ocak, is among the dead — his body was identified by a Turkish soldier — while a local journalist found bones from two teenage Kurdish boys in a cave in 2016.
At 53, Hanim Tosun is one of the youngest of the Saturday Mothers. Many of them are in their 80s and 90s now, and some have died without getting answers. The Turkish government banned them from meeting for 10 years, from 1999 to 2009.
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In recent years, Turkey has been cracking down on dissent by women. In March, police tear-gassed and stopped the International Women’s Day protest in Istanbul after 17 years of allowing it.
Successive Turkish governments have targeted and harassed the Saturday Mothers. But the current government, led by the AK Party, generally left them alone.
Until August 2018. On the 700th vigil, police swooped in with tear gas. They arrested dozens of protesters, including one of the pioneering Saturday Mothers, 83-year-old Emine Ocak, who is Maside Ocak’s mother. An image of Emine Ocak in 1997 alongside a photo of her last year being detained by police went viral on Turkish social media.
Video of Turkey: Clashes erupt as Saturday Mothers protest for missing
Since then, the government has banned the Saturday Mothers from gathering at Galatasaray.
“The world heard about our struggle from Galatasaray. We want to return there. It’s like a sacred ground, for us.”
Hanim Tosun, Saturday Mothers
“The world heard about our struggle from Galatasaray. We want to return there. It’s like a sacred ground, for us,” Hanim Tosun said.
Turkish officials say they blocked the vigils because the Kurdish militia group, the PKK, was using them as propaganda on social media. The Saturday Mothers say they have no connection to the PKK.
Amnesty International is advocating for the government to allow the group back to the square.
“It’s a place of historic importance. It’s a place of peaceful protest, not just for the Saturday Mothers actually, but sit-ins [and] small-scale protests over the years have taken place there,” said Milena Buyum, a campaigner for Amnesty. “Now, it’s encircled by iron barriers, and there’s a permanent police presence there discouraging and stopping anybody else. And this is a really big problem. The public space is being banned for people.”
Keeping the protest aliveFor now, the Saturday Mothers have moved their sit-in to the human rights office.
Jiyan Tosun is 34 now, and when her mom can’t make it to the Saturday sit-in, she often steps in. She’s studying to become a lawyer, she said, because she wants to fight in court, as well as the street.
“Until the disappeared are found and the perpetrators are tried, our demands will remain the same. This has been my mother’s struggle since we were kids.”
Jiyan Tosun, Saturday Mothers
“Until the disappeared are found and the perpetrators are tried, our demands will remain the same," she said. "This has been my mother’s struggle since we were kids. Every week, my mother was going to the demonstration on Saturday … If we didn’t go with her, we were waiting in front of the TV, to see how much she would be beaten that week,” said Jiyan Tosun.
At one Saturday protest earlier this year, Jiyan Tosun was stationed in front of the human rights office. About 150 people gathered for the vigil, carrying red carnations and photos. Nearby, about a dozen police officers in riot gear stood on alert.
“I’m angry because the reason we’re here is the government … They are just standing in front of us and actually preventing us from finding our relatives,” she said.
Fariba Nawa/The World
Credit:
Saturday Mothers meets every Saturday to demand the whereabouts of their missing husbands, fathers and sons.
But Hanim Tosun says she doesn’t go as often as she used to.
Related: For many US military vets, the offensive against the Kurds is personal
She said it’s painful to keep retelling her husband’s story. “When I was getting arrested, there was a lot of violence: kicking, slapping, tear gas, batons. But in jail, they didn’t touch us. One time, they put us in solitary confinement,” said Hanim Tosun, who has been arrested numerous times over the years.
And she doesn’t like to discuss the details in front of her kids.
“The hardest thing for me has been hiding the pain from my kids and enduring it in silence when I’m with them.”
Hanim Tosun, Saturday Mothers
“The hardest thing for me has been hiding the pain from my kids and enduring it in silence when I’m with them,” Hanim Tosun said.
But she said that despite the pain, she will continue her activism. It’s still important for the world to hear them, so more people don’t disappear like her husband did.
She and the Saturday Mothers have gotten recognition and support for their struggle. The Irish band U2 recognized Fehmi Tosun in their 1997 album, “Pop,” and the Tosun family met the band members after an Istanbul concert in 2010.
“Our government doesn’t hear our voice. Somewhere far away, they hear us," Hanim Tosun said. "Our struggle is not in vain. I’m happy to see that."
Reuters contributed to this story.
Isabelle Laurans and her boyfriend tried for years to have a baby. When nothing else worked, they decided to try in vitro fertilization, or IVF.
But halfway through the process, Laurans' boyfriend changed his mind. He dumped her the day they were supposed to make the embryo in the lab.
Laurans says she doesn’t remember most of what went through her mind that day. What she does recall is the overwhelming fear that she’d never get to be a mom.
“I was 38. I knew it would be perhaps too late for me if I waited for a new relationship.”
Isabelle Laurans, IVF proponent
“I was 38. I knew it would be perhaps too late for me if I waited for a new relationship,” she said.
That same day, Laurans says she was on the internet, looking for a Plan B.
“I didn’t want to risk missing out on becoming a mother altogether,” she explained.
Isabelle Laurans poses with her daughter, Charlotte. Laurans had to leave France for IVF treatment in Belgium to get pregnant with her daughter because it is not legal in France for single woman or same-sex couples to use assisted reproductive technologies.
Credit:
Courtesy of Isabelle Laurans
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So, Laurans decided to get IVF on her own.
One problem, though: In France, single women aren’t allowed to get IVF. They're also not allowed to freeze their eggs or get artificial insemination. Lesbian couples are also denied access to assisted reproductive technologies. French law only permits these treatments to women in long-term, heterosexual relationships, putting France at odds with most of its European neighbors (though Germany has similar restrictions).
And so in 2015, Laurans traveled to Belgium to get the treatment. She gave birth to a baby girl, Charlotte, later that year. Laurans says she was lucky to be able to do it.
“It was expensive … and it wasn’t easy,” she said. She had to go through two rounds of IVF. It cost her about $5,500 in all. That might seem cheap to Americans who can pay between $10,000-$15,000 per IVF cycle, depending on insurance coverage. But in France, if Laurans had still been with her boyfriend, the treatment would have been free.
Then there were other complications, Laurans said. She went to Belgium for the actual procedure, but she had to find a doctor in France who would turn a blind eye and prescribe hormone shots and do ultrasounds.
“It made me feel like an outlaw,” Laurans said.
France is in the process of modernizing its IVF laws.
On Tuesday, France’s National Assembly, the lower house of parliament, voted overwhelmingly to pass a bill that would give single women and lesbian couples legal access to IVF, egg freezing and other forms of assisted reproduction. The cost of the treatment would be completely reimbursed by the state, as long as the woman is under 43 years old.
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The National Assembly voted 259 to 114 in favor of the bill. The bill heads to the Senate in January.
The bill was a campaign promise of Emanuel Macron, who called the existing rules a form of “intolerable discrimination.” When his health minister, Agnès Buzyn, introduced the bill on the floor of the National Assembly, she declared that “the criterion that defines a family is the love that unites a parent and a child.”
Still, the bill has become a new front in the French culture wars. While the French tend to be laid-back about sex, occasionally, a Catholic-tinged, conservative resistance bubbles up. It happened in 2013, with large protests against legalizing same-sex marriage. And now it's happening again.
Protesters demonstrate against a reform bill that will widen access to medically assisted procreation to lesbian couples and single women, in Paris, France, on Oct. 6, 2019.
Credit:
Christian Hartmann/Reuters
An estimated 75,000 protesters took the streets of Paris on Oct. 6, carrying banners proclaiming “Liberty, equality, paternity!” — a play on the French national motto. The protest was organized by the same groups behind the anti-gay marriage protests in 2013.
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“Expanding medically assisted reproduction [to single women and lesbian couples] means we would choose, voluntarily, to deprive children of a father,” argued Ludovine de la Rochère, the president of the group, Manif pour Tous. “Of course in life, children may be deprived of their father. It happens. That’s life. But it’s different [when it’s] the choice of the law and of society.”
“This whole demonstration and all the public discussion we’re having about IVF is pretty much about how worried parts of the French population are about fathers and men disappearing from the public sphere. It’s ridiculous … yet very French.”
Alice Coffin, French Association of LGBT Journalists
For the opposition, the law is about more than expanding access to fertility treatments. “This whole demonstration and all the public discussion we’re having about IVF is pretty much about how worried parts of the French population are about fathers and men disappearing from the public sphere,” said Alice Coffin of the French Association of LGBT Journalists. “It’s ridiculous … yet very French,” she said.
Despite these fears, polls show a majority of French voters support expanding access to fertility treatments. The bill must now make its way through the Senate.
Isabelle Laurans, for one, is optimistic the double standard will end.
“In France, there’s one kind of family that’s accepted and another kind that’s not. It’s hard.”
The 2019 Nobel Prizes for chemistry and physics were awarded this week, and — as is the case most of the time — they went to men. That’s despite steps the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences, which runs the Nobel program, took just last year to be more inclusive.
The academy's secretary-general, Göran K. Hansson, sent a letter to scientists asking them to take geography and gender into consideration in their nominations and asked more women to suggest candidates.
But efforts to diversify Nobel winners are slow going, and there’s a long history to overcome: Of the more than 600 Nobel Prizes that have been given out in the sciences, just 20 have gone to women. Some other prize categories, such as peace and literature, are more diverse, but they are considered more “acceptable” for women. (The 20 awards include prizes in physiology or medicine, chemistry and physics.)
But those prizes have also had their challenges. The Nobels haven’t been spared from modern movements like #MeToo; last year, because of a complicated sexual harassment scandal, the Royal Swedish Academy didn’t award a prize for literature — so there are two awards in that category this year.
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Hansson told the journal Nature that he couldn’t do more to increase diversity because of a covenant laid down by the original funder of the prizes, Alfred Nobel, who invented dynamite. Nobel explicitly said nationality shouldn’t be considered in awarding winners.
“It’s important to remember that the Nobel Prize is awarded for discoveries and inventions, and those who receive it have made major contributions to humankind, and that’s why they get the prize.”
Göran K. Hansson, Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences, secretary-general
“It’s important to remember that the Nobel Prize is awarded for discoveries and inventions,” Hansson said at the 2018 press conference to announce the Nobel Prize winner for physics, “and those who receive it have made major contributions to humankind, and that’s why they get the prize.”
At that press conference, Canadian Donna Strickland was named winner for her work on lasers. She became the first woman to receive a Nobel for physics in 55 years. She took questions from reporters, and seemed surprised when one told her she was only the third woman ever to earn a Nobel for physics. (It went to French physicist Marie Curie in 1903, who was also awarded the Nobel in chemistry in 1911, and German-born American physicist Maria Goeppert Mayer received the physics Nobel in 1963.)
The scene was not quite the same this year when the Nobel committee announced its prize for chemistry to three men in an Oct. 9 press conference.
Related: Physics Nobel for laser pioneers includes first woman in 55 years
“I thought there might have been more,” Strickland said. “Obviously, we need to celebrate women physicists because we’re out there. And hopefully, in time, it’ll start to move forward at a faster rate, maybe. I don’t know what to say. I’m honored to be one of those women.”
(Strickland was promoted to full professor within weeks of the announcement of her Nobel win.)
Hansson, joining in, said, “We expect more to come.”
There’s no way to know who’s been nominated for a Nobel; those names are kept confidential for 50 years. So, at that 2018 press conference, a reporter asked just for the percentage: How many women were among the total number of nominees? Hansson said he didn’t have that in front of him.
“It’s a small percentage that’s for sure,” Hansson said. “And that’s why we’re taking measures to encourage more nominations. Because we don’t want to miss anyone.”
His academy colleague, physics professor Olga Botner, added that the percentage is small because a few decades ago, there were many fewer women in science.
“So, the number has been increasing steadily over the years, but the number of nominations rather reflect the percentages as they were, say, two or three decades back in time,” she said.
“Thank you,” Hansson responded. “Good point.”
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But is it? Liselotte Jauffred investigated.
“I think it was a dinner table discussion,” said Jauffred, an associate physics professor at the Niels Bohr Institute at the University of Copenhagen. “We were thinking, ‘Is it just by random that they only chose men?’”
So, she and her colleagues used historical data and modeling to find out if the smaller number of women in scientific fields fully accounts for the low number of female Nobel laureates. They published a paper about it last October. The results, Jauffred says, are clear — even accounting for fewer women in the sciences throughout history, women are underrepresented among Nobel Prize winners.
“With 95% probability, there is a bias against women,” she said.
And there are plenty of examples of women who seem to have deserved the Nobel Prize.
Claudia Rankins, co-founder of the Society of STEM Women of Color, points to Lise Meitner, the Austrian physicist who Rankins argues discovered nuclear fission. Meitner fled Nazi persecution, but refused to work on the Manhattan Project to develop the atomic bomb. Her teammate, Otto Hahn, was awarded the Nobel Prize for their work in 1944.
Related: Lise Meitner — the forgotten woman of nuclear physics who deserved a Nobel Prize
“And that's just one example,” said Rankins, who is also a program officer at the National Science Foundation, but is speaking here only of her personal views. “I'm sure you can find throughout history, and even now, many other examples where men and women worked side by side, and the man gets the prize.”
The Swedish Academy can’t give Nobels to those who might have been overlooked; its own rules don’t allow posthumous awards.
Women and people of color are still underrepresented in many scientific fields. And they don’t rise as fast: Rankins points out that when Strickland won the physics Nobel last year, she was still an associate professor at the University of Waterloo in Ontario, Canada, despite her accomplishments. Recent studies suggest that women have been winning more science awards, but those awards often pay less, are lower status, and have to do with teaching, not research.
Rankins said being a woman or minority in a largely white, male field can still be a daily hardship.
“It takes a toll on you on your health and well-being,” she said. “And then for somebody to say, ‘Hmm, there are only white men scientifically advanced enough to be worthy of the Nobel Prize,’ just sort of adds insult to injury.”
Gender equity is a big issue in Canada’s upcoming election, in part because Prime Minister Justin Trudeau made feminism a cornerstone of his first campaign. Back then, when a reporter at a press conference asked him why, Trudeau replied simply: “Because it’s 2015.” It became an iconic moment for Canadian voters.
In the following four years, Trudeau and his Liberal Party championed pay equity. They increased support for child care aid for low-income families, and Trudeau appointed a Cabinet that was half female.
“I think that was an important step forward that was particularly significant to voters who care about equality in public life,” said Sylvia Bashevkin, a political science professor at the University of Toronto. “But I think that the Liberals have run up against the problem of setting a high bar, high expectations.”
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Because, she said, Trudeau failed to meet those high expectations earlier this year when his government was rocked by a scandal. Canada’s first Indigenous attorney general, Jody Wilson-Raybould, alleged Trudeau and others inappropriately pressured her to protect a construction company in a corruption trial. She was demoted, and then she resigned. Indigenous Services Minister Jane Philpott also resigned in solidarity.
The prime minister responded on April 3: “Jody Wilson-Raybould and Jane Philpott are no longer members of the Liberal caucus,” he announced, expelling the women from his Liberal Party, and arguing they had tried to undermine his leadership.
“The treatment of Jodi Wilson-Raybould and Jane Philpott — that story has stuck in the craw of members of the public to quite a remarkable extent.”
Sylvia Bashevkin, University of Toronto, political science professor
“The treatment of Jodi Wilson-Raybould and Jane Philpott — that story has stuck in the craw of members of the public to quite a remarkable extent,” Bashevkin told The World. “I think a lot of them are very disappointed with the Liberals, but that's not to say that they're not willing to go out and vote because older voters in Canada tend to have higher voter turnout rates and are often willing to vote strategically in order to block one party from securing power.”
Related: As asylum-seekers trek north, Canada examines border loophole
The same day Trudeau expelled the women, he went on to speak at the House of Commons in Ottawa to participants of a program called Daughters of the Vote. It brings 338 young women — one for each of the federal ridings or electoral districts — from across Canada to encourage interest in government. As Trudeau welcomed them, a few dozen stood up and turned their backs to express their outrage at Wilson-Raybould’s and Philpott’s expulsions. Hope Tuff-Berg of Ontario was one of them.
“This is an important issue to me because their bravery, their courage, and really, the way they stood up for justice represents ministerial responsibility that we haven't seen, I feel, very often in Canadian politics,” said Tuff-Berg, a political science major who started a nonprofit that encourages young people to vote.
The Conservative candidate for prime minister, Andrew Scheer, also addressed Daughters of the Vote delegates that day in the House of Commons.
Related: Russian Twitter trolls stoke anti-immigrant lies ahead of Canadian election
“It’s easy to say, ‘Add women, change politics.’ But that’s not enough,” he said. “When strong women stand up and speak the truth to power, how do we treat them? That’s an important question that Canadians are asking right now.”
Some delegates walked out during Scheer’s speech, including Asmaa Ali, a nursing student from Alberta. She worries about his stricter immigration platform.
“Strategic voting sometimes feels like the only way that I'll still be able to continue on and maybe keep the services that my family needs,” Ali said, “or still hope that we'll have a chance that maybe a family member will be able to immigrate here.”
Those events at the House of Commons got widespread media attention that raised the profile of young female voters. Young voters turned out in historic numbers for Trudeau in 2015, and in the upcoming election, for the first time ever, millennial voters are set to make up the biggest voting bloc.
Related: Can a ‘merit-based’ immigration system like Canada's or Australia’s work in the US?
Polls show that Trudeau and Scheer are in a close race. Other candidates are running far behind, even though Trudeau recently suffered another scandal when images surfaced of him wearing blackface as a teenager and in his 20s. But by far the biggest issue for many Daughters of the Vote participants is climate change. This year, Trudeau greenlighted a pipeline expansion opposed by environmentalists and some Indigenous groups.
“I think that's really important to take a stand in this election on climate change and the lack of action [by] Trudeau's government. This is part of a movement, and the Green Party is kind of getting a new wave of supporters — young supporters particularly.”
Lila Mansour, delegate, Daughters of the Vote
“I think that's really important to take a stand in this election on climate change and the lack of action [by] Trudeau's government,” said Lila Mansour, a delegate from British Columbia who’s studying economics and has been door knocking for her local Green Party candidate. “This is part of a movement, and the Green Party is kind of getting a new wave of supporters — young supporters particularly.”
For one of the conservative Daughters of the Vote delegates, Hannah Dawson-Murphy of Nova Scotia, jobs and taxes are the big issues. She has already run for local office, lost and plans to run again.
“There has never been anybody to tear me down within my own party, and I think that is something extraordinary for a young woman to experience,” Dawson-Murphy said, adding that, unlike Trudeau’s Liberals, she believes the Conservative Party supports women who run for office.
Students and teachers in Québec have returned to school for the first time since a law banned teachers and public employees in positions of “authority” from wearing religious symbols — this means no headscarves, Sikh turbans, Christian crosses or Jewish skullcaps.
The law, which passed in June, is not a complete ban and included a clause that applies the law only to new hires or those who change jobs.
So, Maha Kassef returned to the classroom last week wearing her headscarf. She currently works three days a week at a French-language elementary school in the Montreal region.
“It’s always like the first two weeks, you just feel like you've been run over by a truck,” she joked.
Related: As asylum-seekers trek north, Canada examines border loophole
But, watching her 3-year-old play at the end of a long day, she says she feels extra anxiety this year over the new law.
“That's the gray area that I don't know where I am,” she said.
The rules are so new she has questions she can’t answer: Is she protected by the grandfather clause as a substitute, moving from school to school, as needed?
The law bars her from future promotions if she won’t remove her headscarf.
So, she asks herself, “Am I forever going to be a substitute teacher, going from one part-time contract to the next?”
Kassef’s mother was a principal at a private school. Having taught in Québec and Ontario since 2006, Kassef had imagined eventually getting training to become a principal herself.
“For me, it kind of dashes a lot of the things that I had prepared for myself.”
Maha Kassef, substitute teacher
“For me, it kind of dashes a lot of the things that I had prepared for myself,” Kassef said.
Related: Is Canada's health care system a cure-all?
The legislation passed by a wide margin in the provincial legislature. Its focus on visible religious dress comes from a combination of historical and political influences, according to Solange Lefebvre, a professor at the Institute for Religious Studies at the University of Montreal.
“You find a certain allergy to religious visibility,” Lefebvre said.
She noted that French-speaking Québec and France, which has similar legislation, both have an anti-clerical streak that emerged in response to past domination by the Catholic Church.
Both number among the many regions where distrust of immigrants and Islam has risen since the 2000s, “but in Québec and France and some other countries, it takes this form of especially this [focus on] Muslim women wearing a hijab or niqab or burka.”
Lefebvre opposed the bill because she thinks it stigmatizes religious minorities. However, she said its supporters do include some recent immigrants from Muslim-majority countries in North Africa.
Nadia El-Mabrouk came to Canada from Tunisia and has two children in Québec public schools. She has testified in support of the religious symbols bill.
“We need to assure children an education without religious proselytization,” El-Mabrouk said. “Religious symbols are not neutral. They transmit messages that are not neutral.”
She recently signed a letter supporting a Montreal parent’s right to request to have their child moved out of the class of a grandfathered teacher still wearing a hijab.
Protesters hold signs at a rally before the passage of Quebec's Bill 21 in Montreal on June 17, 2019.
Credit:
Christinne Muschi/Reuters
“The law stipulates clearly that every citizen has a right to public services that are secular,” she added.
After press coverage of the case, Québec’s government made it clear that parents would not be allowed to “shop around” for teachers.
But Nuzhat Jafri, executive director of the Canadian Council of Muslim Women, says the entire conversation surrounding the bill has encouraged intolerance in Québec.
“We’re hearing about incidents occurring more often than they used to before the law passed, of young women having their headscarves pulled off, people calling them names.”
Nuzhat Jafri, Canadian Council of Muslim Women
“We’re hearing about incidents occurring more often than they used to before the law passed, of young women having their headscarves pulled off, people calling them names.”
Local media have reported on several cases of newly hired teachers who have been refused jobs or asked not to wear their religious dress.
Related: Can a ‘merit-based’ immigration system like Canada's or Australia’s work in the US?
“This is a recipe for disengagement and disenchantment with Québec,” Jafri argued. “Many people will leave and have been leaving to go find employment elsewhere.”
Protesters hold signs at a rally in Montreal on June 17, 2019, before the passage of Bill 21, which banned the wearing of religious symbols, such as headscarves and hijabs, by public employees.
Credit:
Christinne Muschi/Reuters
Returning teacher Maha Kassef says she has felt self-conscious this fall in ways she hadn’t before about how other teachers and parents perceive her headscarf.
“My presence in the classroom, wearing something on my head, is just basically representing the multiculturalism that they're going to encounter outside of the school. So, I don't see the problem with that. … We're just a reflection of their daily life.”
Maha Kassef, substitute teacher
“My presence in the classroom, wearing something on my head, is just basically representing the multiculturalism that they're going to encounter outside of the school,” she said. “So, I don't see the problem with that. … We're just a reflection of their daily life.”
Related: What we can learn from Canada’s universal child care model
The religious symbols law is being challenged in court by a university student who was training to become a teacher when the law was passed.
Simon Jolin-Barrette, Québec’s minister of immigration, francization and integration, did not respond to The World’s interview request but spoke with Radio-Canada in June as the legal challenge began.
Jolin-Barrette said that Québec’s government is confident in the soundness of its legislation, which he called “moderate” and “balanced.”
It can be hard to find a truly quiet place in the Lake Worth, Florida-based Guatemalan-Maya Center.
Just inside one door, case workers and other staff answer phones and talk clients through paperwork, immigration processes and other services. A long, narrow room on the ground floor has chairs along one wall that are often filled with people waiting for help.
Other activities, like planning for cultural events and staging for projects and donations, spill over to the spaces in between.
Related: In this California classroom, students teach each other their home languages — and learn acceptance
But at least one afternoon a week, a group of high school girls carve out some space in the quietest area they can find to huddle around a laptop.
They call themselves the Mayan Girls.
The Mayan Girls, dressed in the traditional outfits they wore to pitch to Philanthropy Tank, stand with their adviser, social worker Daniel Morgan.
Credit:
Courtesy of the Mayan Girls
Listen to WLRN's story:
The 'trusted translators' The girls, all students at nearby Lake Worth Community High School, began coming to the center to complete community service hours for school. They started out translating on the spot between the center’s clients and its caseworkers.
Like many of the center’s clients, they’re of Guatemalan-Mayan descent. Most of them speak Spanish, English and also a Mayan language.
Related: Mexico wants to run a tourist train through its Mayan heartland — should it?
Mayan languages are an entirely separate language family from Spanish or English. For someone who speaks only Q’anjob’al, Mam or K'iche', Spanish would make about as much sense as Arabic does to an English-only speaker. And a good portion of the center’s Indigenous clients speak only a Mayan language.
“I have tons of information, but I can’t get it to them, because I don’t personally speak a Mayan language.”
Daniel Morgan, Mayan Girls’ adviser, social worker
“I have tons of information, but I can’t get it to them, because I don’t personally speak a Mayan language,” said Daniel Morgan, a social worker at the center who’s also served as the Mayan Girls’ adviser.
When Morgan sits down with a client who doesn’t understand Spanish or English, he says he’ll turn first to other clients in the waiting room with more proficiency to help him get information across. If there’s no one there who can help, he calls up “one of my trusted translators.”
Related: Guatemalan women transform their town one brushstroke at a time
The high school girls started out among those trusted translators. But high school classes meant they weren’t available during most of the center’s weekday hours.
Morgan suggested they start recording some general information.
That’s what led them to hunt for quiet spaces at the center to gather around their computer.
Q’anjob’al on demandThe girls mostly speak Q’anjob’al, which is also the most prevalent Mayan language among Palm Beach County’s Indigenous population. (Read more about Q'anjob'al and other Mayan languages here.)
Ramona Francisco, a high school junior, is the voice of the Mayan Girls on most of their recordings.
She and the others start with a piece of information that needs translating — sometimes a flyer from the local health clinic or the Department of Children and Families, sometimes information passed to them by other county agencies looking to reach more Guatemalan immigrants — and talk through it.
Related: This interpreter is helping get justice for Indigenous women raped and tortured in Guatemala’s civil war
They’ll usually read through it in Spanish or English, then bounce ideas off each other about how to express it in Q’anjob’al.
The girls aren’t professional translators — they’re teenagers. Translating a tricky concept isn’t as simple as plugging it in to Google Translate, so sometimes they have to talk their way around more complex ideas like “domestic violence” or “average.”
As Francisco talks her way through it, the other girls will chime in with “no, that’s not how you say it” or “yes.”
Once they’ve run through the information a couple times and agreed on how to phrase it, Francisco can usually record a clean version in just a few attempts. She leans into a microphone plugged into the computer’s USB port and spills out the Q’anjob’al translation, glancing down every few paragraphs at the Spanish version in front of her.
Bigger dreams, and bigger fundsThat was the Mayan Girls’ system for recording over their first few months — laptop, microphone, free online recording software.
Then, last March, they pitched their project at a “Shark Tank”-style event run by Philanthropy Tank, a startup incubator for teen-run community service projects.
Video of Philanthropy Tank Live Pitch Event, Kravis Center, West Palm Beach, FL
“Hello, good afternoon, we are the Mayan Girls,” teenager Lorena Felipe Sebastian called out from a stage at the Kravis Center for the Performing Arts last March. She and four others stood clad in traditional skirts and embroidered blouses.
She and Daniella Domingo, another Mayan Girl, outlined their project. They were asking for $15,000 to fund equipment, outreach and supplies for monthly community events.
They received the money — and a giant novelty check that sits in the Guatemalan-Maya Center.
They’ve already used some of the funds. They held a back-to-school event in early August to introduce themselves to the community and pass out school supplies. They bought a laptop and are stocking it with audio- and video-editing software.
The Mayan Girls' novelty $15,000 check sits on a cabinet at the Guatemalan-Maya Center.
Credit:
Madeline Fox/WLRN
A camera and additional microphone will, they hope, allow them to flesh out their simple audio recordings with skits demonstrating the spoken information.
Guatemala has one of the lowest literacy rates in the Western Hemisphere, and it’s particularly low in Indigenous communities.
Audio has been a useful medium, since it allows Mayan-language speakers who can’t read the language to understand the information. The girls hope recording in which they act the information out, as well, will reinforce what they’re saying.
A legacy of translationThe Mayan Girls are far from the first to reach out to their community in Mayan languages.
Poli Gaspar Xuncax, the Guatemalan-Maya Center’s co-founder who died of cancer in May, started out as a translator for new arrivals fleeing the Guatemalan civil war. She bridged the language gap between refugees and the immigration attorneys helping them build their legal cases.
Later, when Indigenous women were giving birth to babies with higher-than-usual numbers of complications, Gaspar Xuncax and other Q’anjob’al speakers helped coax them into doctors’ offices to make sure they were getting necessary prenatal care.
“The women believed them, and trusted them, because they spoke a Mayan language,” said Morgan, the social worker.
Felipe Sebastian saw the power of communicating with people in their native language when she first started volunteering at the center.
“They would seem frustrated that they don’t understand. But when we’re there, they feel more relieved that we’re there to help them and have a better understanding of what others are trying to tell them.”
Felipe Sebastian, volunteer
“They would seem frustrated that they don’t understand,” she said. “But when we’re there, they feel more relieved that we’re there to help them and have a better understanding of what others are trying to tell them.”
Felipe Sebastian herself didn't grow up speaking Q'anjob'al. She started learning three or four years ago when her mom's comadre, a family friend, moved to South Florida speaking no Spanish or English. Over time, Felipe Sebastian honed her Q'anjob'al, and the other woman developed Spanish skills.
Now, Felipe Sebastian serves as her family's translator, in addition to her work with clients and recordings at the center. She interprets official forms that arrive in the mail and travels to courthouses, hospitals and health clinics to help members of her extended family get the services they need.
The Mayan Girls are adding technology to their community's translation legacy. Over time, they’re hoping to be able to provide that same reassurance of familiar language on-demand, with audio and video recordings that will help guide their community through common issues.
'Press four for Q’anjob’al'Felipe Sebastian is also thinking big, in the long term.
In the same way that many local agencies, doctor’s offices and customer service lines allow callers to “press two for Spanish” and often another number for Kreyol, she said she thinks “it would be awesome if you press four for Q’anjob’al, or a Mayan language.”
Morgan would love to see the girls take their language skills into social work, like Gaspar Xuncax.
“They’ll be the future social workers, and community leaders,” he said.
Like most teenagers, though, the girls have their own dreams for the future.
“Mm, for me, I want to work with the center,” said Sebastian, “but later on, in my future, I want to be a boss in construction and roofing.”
A changing populationThough Q’anjob’al remains dominant in Palm Beach County’s Mayan population, new immigration is bringing more people, and different Mayan languages, to Palm Beach County.
Despite the federal immigration crackdown, new people are still arriving from Guatemala. They are fleeing violence and food insecurity in their home country.
Duke University professor Sarah Bermeo, who has studied migration from Central America, said that while Guatemala may trail El Salvador and Honduras in its rate of violent crime, there’s still a high level of violence — and, with crimes going unpunished at rates as high as 95% at points in the past several years, little deterrence or chance for justice.
Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras and Nicaragua also have a “dry corridor” that’s seen a multiyear drought linked to climate change. Bermeo says 16% of Guatemala’s population is chronically food insecure, and another 22% is moderately food insecure.
“People really don’t know how they’re going to keep feeding their families if they remain where they are,” she said.
Among the broader Guatemalan population, Indigenous communities are particularly at risk. Targeted violence during the civil war forced many to flee to the country’s highlands, where they don’t always have documented rights to the land where they’re living. As a result, the land can be taken from them, and they can’t borrow against it to keep their families afloat.
“When the overall situation in Guatemala deteriorates, it hurts the marginalized the hardest. It's a poor country, but this is an exceptionally poor group and large group within that country.”
Sarah Bermeo, Duke University, professor
“When the overall situation in Guatemala deteriorates, it hurts the marginalized the hardest,” said Bermeo. “It's a poor country, but this is an exceptionally poor group and large group within that country.”
With an established Guatemalan community already present in Palm Beach County, many who have fled to the US have settled in Lake Worth and Jupiter. Some speak Q’anjob’al, but others are bringing Mam, K'iche', Awakateko and other languages within the Mayan family.
“When I go to my classes, it’s always that I hear a person speaking a Mayan language,” said Felipe Sebastian. “So, I know that there’s a big majority of them.”
She and the other Mayan Girls have turned some of their attention to recruiting new members who can bring in other Mayan languages. Though the information they’ve distributed so far is in Q’anjob’al, they’re seeing the need for everything from storm warnings to measles vaccine information in other Mayan languages — and that’s a gap they hope to fill in the years to come.
This story originally appeared on WLRN.
Omer Azizi knows what it’s like to be stuck in a squalid tent with only a United Nations-issued ID tag confirming his existence. He fled Afghanistan’s Taliban tucked in his mother’s arms, and spent his childhood in various Pakistani refugee camps. Over the years, he watched his parents fight the odds to get the family out of refugee camps.
They finally made it to the United States in 2014, and today, Azizi is a recent graduate of the University of Southern California. But he hasn’t forgotten about his parents’ struggle and what other refugees are still going through. In fact, he spent much of the past year developing an app that he calls Safar, meaning “journey” in both Farsi and Arabic, to solve the information gap that exists for refugees worldwide, and pitching it to potential supporters. These days, a smartphone, something his parents never had, is a necessity for survival in a refugee camp.
Related: Young migrants and refugees in Greece wanted to be heard. So they started their own newspaper.
Safar, which Azizi plans to launch this month, came out of an assignment in a unique class he took last year from the university’s engineering school, Innovation in Engineering Design for Global Challenges. Azizi majored in business, but the pilot class drew students from seven different schools across the university.
“I am a refugee; I grew up as a refugee in camps, and when I saw this class, I was like, ‘This is made for me.’”
Omer Azizi, graduate, University of Southern California
“I am a refugee; I grew up as a refugee in camps, and when I saw this class, I was like, ‘This is made for me,’” Azizi said.
When the refugee crisis in Europe began, Burcin Becerik-Gerber, a professor of civil and environmental engineering at the school, found herself pondering some big questions — like, how do you improve life for people who live in tents or makeshift shelters, or who are homeless?
Becerik-Gerber and her colleagues were inspired to create the course to tackle those dilemmas. She knew her students would need to see up-close the realities and hardships refugees face.
Related: Sicilian school helps migrant teenagers overcome their fear of the sea
“You have to be there to build empathy, to be able to be in their shoes even for a week or two weeks,” Becerik-Gerber said.
It’s a new way of thinking about engineering and design — putting concepts like empathy and failure front and center. The class involves talking directly with the people affected, for whom solutions are being created. Students build and test prototypes and seek practical feedback.
“I don’t want to create solutions that are good on paper, but don’t work,” Becerik-Gerber said. So, students make two visits to refugee camps in Lesvos, Greece, over the course of the year.
Becerik-Gerber wants them to realize there are big expectations, and in her welcome spiel during the first class of the year, she told them bluntly: “It is going to be [a] very difficult two semesters.”
Students form teams and collaborate with global partners they’ve been assigned to work with. “So, your team is not just the five of you, you have partners halfway around the world that you have to work with, and they are 8 to 10 hours ahead of you.”
The professors learned many lessons from last year’s inaugural class.
"There are so many questions we cannot answer, even though we went there [to the Greek refugee camps] twice," Becerik-Gerber said. "What materials to use in Greece? How to manufacture something? What would be the most cost efficient?”
This year, they're partnering with the University of the Aegean, which pairs a local student with each team to help with research in Greece. "We're talking about multicultural, multinational, multidisciplinary, multi time zone collaborations," Becerik-Gerber said.
Related: Shopkeepers sue Sicilian Mafia in first-ever migrant-led case
Becerik-Gerber teaches the class with Brad Cracchiola, an engineer and designer, Daniel Druhora, documentary filmmaker, and David Gerber, a professor of architecture practice and civil engineering. (Gerber and Becerik-Gerber are married.)
“But at the end of the day, this is about people who desperately need help on the other side of the world and we’re not playing around; it’s for real.”
Brad Cracchiola, University of Southern California
“You’re going to be doing a lot of presentations and pitches like you’re a start up,” Cracchiola warned the students. “But at the end of the day, this is about people who desperately need help on the other side of the world and we’re not playing around; it’s for real.”
Amini Muhammad, an Afghan refugee in Greece, shared his story with the students over speakerphone. He had worked for the US military in Afghanistan and fled after being threatened.
Listening to refugees is what this course is all about, and the students will soon go to Greece to meet asylum-seekers in person in refugee camps.
After visiting refugee camps on Lesvos last year, students Siena Applebaum and Erna Redzepagic realized many of their ideas wouldn’t pan out on the ground.
They spent days meeting with asylum-seekers in the camps, asking about life there and people’s needs. They were struck by how people weren’t able to shower regularly, and how the lack of hygiene brought on illnesses.
The students also talked to refugees elsewhere, to see if this problem was unique to Lesvos or more widespread.
“We asked our refugee partners who are resettled in Germany and Spain and Greece, ‘Is hygiene a really big issue in the camps?’ And they all confirmed it was one of the worst things there,” Redzepagic said.
They set out to design a portable, low-cost shower.
Related: What happened to Italy’s unaccompanied migrant minors?
“One of our first ideas was a pop-up tent,” Applebaum said. “Something with collapsible poles for a frame and a tarp surrounding it.”
It looked somewhat like a camping shower, and they thought it would work well. It was their first failure.
“As we showed this to people we were working with, all of the women came back to us saying, ‘I do not feel safe showering in that.’”
Siena Applebaum, student, University of Southern California
“As we showed this to people we were working with, all of the women came back to us saying, ‘I do not feel safe showering in that,’” Applebaum said.
In the camps, too often women are vulnerable to sexual assaults in showers, which are often made of tarp material. Men have been known to slice through the material while women bathe.
After rethinking the shower’s design, Applebaum and Redzepagic landed on a long, slender wooden box — similar to a portable toilet. They built a prototype with wood panels that fit together like puzzle pieces.
“So, we really relied just on the design of these panels to provide almost all of the functionality. The hooks, the drain, how it’s assembled, no fasteners are required, no additional hinges are required. It just relies on the design of these flat panels,” Appleabaum said.
The wood panels are held in place by military strength zip ties. There is no way a knife could slice through, which means their target user — a refugee woman or girl — might actually use what they built. They are now hoping to find a company in Greece to help manufacture the wood panels.
Similarly, Azizi, also an alum from last year’s inaugural class, realized the information needs of refugees when he went to Greece last year with his classmates. It helped that Azizi had firsthand experience in refugee camps — and since he’s fluent in five languages, he could speak to most of the refugees he met.
“I talked to a random refugee who was seemingly very distressed and was walking around, and I asked him, ‘Hey, can I help you,’ and I spoke in Farsi with him and he told me that he has an asylum interview and he was very much concerned if he doesn’t do well in that interview it’s over for him,” Azizi said.
He knows that feeling all too well. “I [asked] him, ‘Do you know there is a legal aid NGO [and it’s] main job is to help with cases?’ And he was like, no,” Azizi said.
Refugees should be able to access information about legal aid agencies, medical service providers and free food in one place, he said. That's where Azizi's app, Safar, comes in. His parents might have benefited from something like that during their years in the Pakistani camps.
Some nongovernmental organizations wanted to be able to use the app to communicate with each other, too. That way, they could avoid replicating services and prevent refugees from falling through the cracks. Azizi also simplified the interface after hearing that people had a hard time navigating the app.
Now, he's shopping his app around to investors. He's also turning down jobs with top engineering firms because he wants to help other refugees.
“I feel that I have the moral responsibility to give back,” said Azizi, who is mentoring students in the USC course this year. “The humanitarian space and the refugee crisis needs refugee leadership.”
Correction: An earlier version of this story misattributed a quote from Brad Cracchiola.
Editor's note: Deepa Fernandes is a Pacific Oaks College reporting fellow, which is funded in part by First 5 LA.
If you're trying to get pregnant, you may have turned to an ovulation- or period-tracking app for help. Millions of women around the world use them for a variety of reasons. But what happens to the highly personal data people enter in these apps? In some cases, it gets fed to third parties — including Facebook. That's according to a Buzzfeed News investigation and a new report by the UK-based advocacy group Privacy International, which looked at apps being used in different parts of the world.
The apps monitored in the study included Maya by Plackal Tech, MIA Fem by Mobapp Development Limited, and Mi Calendario Menstrual by Grupo Familia (an app targeting users in Latin America). They also looked at My Period Tracker by Linchpin Health, Period Tracker & Ovulation Calculator by Pinkbird, and Period Tracker by GP International LLC.
The World's Marco Werman spoke with Eva Blum-Dumontet, the researcher who led the study on the period-tracking apps at Privacy International.
Marco Werman: What are some of the apps that you looked at and what purpose do they serve?Eva Blum-Dumontet: We looked at Maya by Plackal Tech, MIA by Mobapp Development Limited, and Mi Calendario by Grupo Familia — which is an app targeting users in Latin America. We also looked at My Period Tracker by Linchpin Health, Ovulation Calculator by Pinkbird, and Period Tracker by GP International LLC. And what we found is that the ones that are both called Maya [MIA] has very worrying practices because essentially they ask their users to enter extremely sensitive data not just about their menstruation but also about their sexual lives and also all sorts of medical data like their birth control pill but also even like their blood pressure any sort of medical history they might have. And this is all shared with Facebook and other third parties.
"All of them actually are collecting very sensitive data."
And those other apps that you mentioned — are they also acquiring the same kind of data?All of them actually are collecting very sensitive data. The other ones were not sharing [that data] with Facebook or other third parties. But what they were doing though is that every time the user would open the app they let Facebook know that the user is opening the app. So Facebook knows that you're using this app, which means that you're a person who menstruates ... [or it] means you're at a time of your cycle where you're actually on your period. It probably also tells Facebook that you may be either trying to have a child or trying to avoid getting pregnant. So there is a lot of information already that can be inferred from just nearly letting Facebook know that you've opened up the app.
Just to be clear, the app developers would say this [information] is legitimately needed to make certain determinations about your fertility, correct?So, it's needed for them, but what's absolutely not mandatory, is sharing it with Facebook.
So what does Facebook do with this information?It's unclear at this stage what Facebook does with this information. [But] what we question is why a company like Facebook should have access to this data when we think back to the reality of what has happened with Facebook collecting so much data about us in the past, and, obviously, I'm thinking, for example, about the Cambridge Analytica scandal and the targeting of populations in the context of elections. It is worrying that a company like Facebook would hold so much data and so much personal intimate data.
Who around the world is typically using these apps? So the apps we’ve looked at are particularly popular in India, in Indonesia, and in the Philippines.
Right. And women there — are they given this information voluntarily? I mean, do you know if there are concerns about privacy in those countries?We partnered with BuzzFeed for this research and they've interviewed users of these apps in various countries, and, obviously, sadly, a lot of users are simply not aware of the data collection and data sharing of those apps and their practices.
Right, which seems like this ought to be changed. If people are unaware, they should be made aware. I mean, how clear do these apps make it into their terms of service?We have been looking at the privacy policies of those apps. It's worth bearing in mind that for the general public, for the average person, it would be actually quite a difficult thing to read. It's not necessarily written in very accessible language. It's quite long.
Did you not explicitly clarify the extent to which they share information with third parties?So we actually question even the legality of the privacy policies that are not sufficiently transparent, not sufficiently explicit, especially, when, as I said, they are collecting medical data.
"If you don't understand what you're signing, it cannot be understood as informed consent, and that's actually what we would argue in this case."
I mean, the thing is, even when people are aware and they then decide to fork over their data, they're doing it voluntarily, right?Well, there is a question to be asked — is it people doing it voluntarily when they don't actually understand what's going to happen to this data and when it's not properly explained to them? In European data protection legislation, there is the really important notion of informed consent. If you don't understand what you're signing, it cannot be understood as informed consent, and that's actually what we would argue in this case.
This interview was edited and condensed for clarity.
On a recent Wednesday, Noam Shuster-Eliassi strolled around the tiny village in Israel where she grew up, Neve Shalom or "Oasis of Peace," wishing goodbye to her neighbors. The Israeli comedian was heading to Harvard University in just a few days for a fellowship at the Divinity School. There, she will be writing an hourlong comedy show in Hebrew, English and Arabic. She is calling it, “Coexistence My Ass.”
The name pokes fun at Shuster-Eliassi’s upbringing in the village, the only place in Israel designed for Israelis and Palestinians to intentionally live together. It also makes light of her career as a professional peace activist. After graduating from Brandeis University outside of Boston, Massachusetts, Shuster-Eliassi returned to Israel to work for the peacebuilding group, Interpeace.
“You know, I care about the political causes, but I’m 31 and single, so, I go to the demonstrations mainly to look for a date. And when I go to the demonstrations, the problem is that the only people who actually look like they have taken a shower is the police officers.”
Noam Shuster-Eliassi
But with the political situation between Israelis and Palestinians at an impasse, Shuster-Eliassi felt she wasn’t reaching people. So, she began telling jokes — about the unusual village where she grew up, her identity as the daughter of an Iranian-born Jew and her dating life as a leftist in Israel. Like this one she told an audience in London last year: “You know, I care about the political causes, but I’m 31 and single, so, I go to the demonstrations mainly to look for a date,” she said, to raucous laughter. “And when I go to the demonstrations, the problem is that the only people who actually look like they have taken a shower is the police officers.”
Related: Cracking up or cracking down? For Saudi comedians, the red lines are a ‘moving target.’
Shuster-Eliassi, now 32, says she doesn’t just want to make people laugh — she wants to make them think. She also wants to challenge the power dynamics in the region. She recently appeared on an Arabic-language TV show on Israel’s i24NEWS network. She joked that she was looking for a husband, and she's aiming high: the Saudi Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman — MBS. There was a political subtext to the joke: The governments of Israel and Saudi Arabia are drawing closer, and Shuster-Eliassi says it’s happening at the expense of Palestinians.
“There is no way in the world that we can solve the religious and political conflict that we have here, and the issues that we have here with Palestinians through going around over their heads and closing narrow deals with Saudi leaders.”
Noam Shuster-Eliassi
“There is no way in the world that we can solve the religious and political conflict that we have here, and the issues that we have here with Palestinians through going around, over their heads, and closing narrow deals with Saudi leaders,” she said.
The next day, the video was all over Arabic media, with spots on Al Jazeera and BBC Arabic. Some news anchors took her seriously.
“It was like I went to sleep a very anonymous woman,” Shuster-Eliassi said. When she woke up, she was known across the Middle East as the Israeli Jewish woman who proposed to MBS.
Related: Lebanon's King of Comedy is on a global mission to make everyone laugh at the same joke. It's working.
Shuster-Eliassi’s political humor is popular with left-leaning Israelis. And it’s also won her some Palestinian fans. Walking around Oasis of Peace, Shuster-Eliassi ran into one. Ahmad Muna was visiting the village from Jerusalem for the afternoon. He recognized Shuster-Eliassi from her videos and asked for a selfie with her. He says as a Palestinian, he appreciates her take.
Israeli comedian Noam Shuster Eliassi takes a selfie with Ahmad Muna, a Palestinian fan from Jerusalem.
Credit:
Naomi Zeveloff/The World
Shuster-Eliassi captures “what Israel is about and what it is really doing in the region and doing to Palestinians.”
Ahmad Muna
Shuster-Eliassi captures “what Israel is about and what it is really doing in the region and doing to Palestinians.” What makes her unique, he added, is that she’s doing it from a point of view from inside Israeli society.
Yet, sometimes there’s a limit to Shuster-Eliassi’s reach with Palestinians. Last year, she was the first Jewish comedian to perform at a Palestinian comedy show in East Jerusalem called the 1001 Laughs Palestine Comedy Festival. She was invited back this year. But at the last minute, her appearance was canceled. The organizer, Amer Zaher, told her that the politics got in the way.
In an interview, Zaher named several reasons that the political environment is just too sensitive to bring an Israeli Jew onstage this year. Among them is the fact that Israel just banned two US congresswomen from entering the country on an official trip, citing their support for the Palestinian-led Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions (BDS) movement. One of them was Rep. Rashida Tlaib, a Palestinian American. Zaher says comedy is about pushing boundaries, but there are limits.
Related: Two reps were sworn in on the Quran. It’s a symbolic moment for Muslim Americans.
“We do want to push people to think and push people to expand their horizons a little bit, but that doesn’t mean you want to offend the sensibilities of the whole society. So, we have to be careful.”
Amer Zaher
“We do want to push people to think and push people to expand their horizons a little bit, but that doesn’t mean you want to offend the sensibilities of the whole society,” Zaher said, by way of explanation. “So, we have to be careful.”
Shuster-Eliassi decided to go to the show anyway, as an audience member. In the East Jerusalem venue, music played as the host introduced Zaher. The audience cheered. Sitting on the sidelines, Shuster-Eliassi looked crestfallen. But she says she understands the sensitivities.
Related: New Palestinian museum in DC favors the personal over the political
“I don’t want to avoid the reality,” she said. “The reality sucks. You know, the Palestinians are living under occupation. We are not equals. But the Palestinian comedians invited me because they believe there is something to be done, and they believe the Palestinian audiences are intelligent enough to listen to me.”
She says that the timing isn’t right. But maybe someday it will be. “It’s a beginning of something,” she said of her connection to Palestinian audiences.
A few days later, Shuster-Eliassi left for the US to develop her trilingual show. But even though she might find a more receptive crowd there for her sharply political humor, she’s not planning to stay. She wants to bring her comedy back home.
If you’re a woman or over 60 in Chile, you have to pay two to three times more for your health insurance. At least, when it comes to private health care. Older people pay more, too. And if you have a pre-existing condition, like asthma, you’ll be denied coverage. But Chile’s government is debating right now whether to change that.
First, a breakdown of how health care works in Chile.
There’s the public system that anyone can access, which is paid for by a 7% tax on salaries. And then there’s the private insurance system called Isapre. You have to pay a lot more for it but it gives you access to specialists and better hospitals. And the waits aren’t nearly as long.
Related: Is Canada's health care system a cure-all?
That’s what María Pilar Iturrieta, a lawyer in Santiago, wanted. Pilar has a 5-year-old daughter named Guadalupe who was born with a cleft lip. Guadalupe needed specialty care, which she could only get through the private Isapre system.
But when Pilar applied for private insurance, she was rejected three times because of her daughter’s condition.
The profit-minded Isapres, she said, doesn't want to insure sick people.
“Isapres say they can’t afford to insure sick people. It’s a health care system but they don’t want to work with sick people. It’s a win-win for them."
María Pilar Iturrieta, Santiago, Chile
“Isapres says they can’t afford to insure sick people. It’s a health care system but they don’t want to work with sick people. It’s a win-win for them,” Pilar said.
So Pilar decided to take Isapres to court. She argued that health care is a social right guaranteed under Chile’s constitution.
“But Isapres says 'no, no, no, this causes us a problem because we are looking for profit not to recognize your right to health,'” she said. “That is the hypocritical system that exists today in Chile.”
It’s true that Isapres does charge more for people who need more care. That’s how insurance works. But in most countries, health insurance systems don’t deny people plans, they just increase the price.
Pedro Barría has sued Isapres, Chile's private health insurance company, several times. He says the private system treats people like a commodity.
Credit:
Paige Sutherland/The World
Pedro Barría, also a lawyer in Santiago, has sued Isapres quite often. So much that he was selected to sit on an executive commission aimed at reforming the system. He said the private system’s biggest problem is that it treats people like a commodity — like a car.
“When car insurance says [it] won’t give you insurance if your car is dented, crashed, or is in bad conditions — that’s OK,” he said. “But it is not OK that health insurance tells you that I won’t insure you because you have cystic fibrosis or high blood pressure — those are things, the latter is people.”
Related: Canadians fear drug shortages as US seeks to import drugs
Prior to 1981, Chile only had a public health system. But when the military dictatorship of Augusto Pinochet took over in 1973, the private system was birthed 8 years later. It was a risk-based structure designed for profit. Even pregnancy was considered a pre-existing condition until 2014.
“The idea under this system is that everyone is the master of [their] future, which is rubbish as there are people who don’t have the same opportunities and can’t choose to be sick, disabled, a woman or old but have a right to good health care."
Guillermo Paraje, economics professor, Universidad Adolfo Ibáñez
Guillermo Paraje is an economics professor at Universidad Adolfo Ibáñez and also sat on the same commission as Barría.
“The idea under this system is that everyone is the master of [their] future, which is rubbish as there are people who don’t have the same opportunities and can’t choose to be sick, disabled, a woman or old but have a right to good health care,” he said.
Apparently, the court agreed and ruled in María Pilar’s favor. It said that denying health care based on a pre-existing condition is discriminatory and unconstitutional. But that only means Pilar is granted coverage, she still has to pay three times more than the average person because of her daughter’s condition and because she’s a woman. Women, if educated, earn on average 35% less than men, the largest wage gap across the Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development (OCED) countries.
And Pilar’s victory doesn’t help others in her situation. That’s because Chile’s legal system doesn’t recognize precedent. So people have to file their own lawsuits. Since the beginning of this year, more than 100,000 have sued Isapres — mostly over rate increases.
Adriana Orozcosued to stop a 10% increase last year. Even though she won her case, Orozco said she’s still charged almost three times what her husband pays. It’s unfair, she said, but feels like she has no choice.
Related: ‘Maternity jail’: Women in Argentina and the US find ways around restrictive abortion laws
“If you have a very good public service you would say OK, that’s fine but it’s not. In the public service, you can wait six months to a year for a surgery or an appointment with a specialist but private, you just call, you get next day or ten days maximum,” she said.
According to a study by the Isapres Association, roughly 50% of people in the public system want to be in the private system — they just can’t afford it.
Like Orozco, many people who sue Isapres win.
Adriana Orozco is one of 100,000 people who have sued Isapres for rate increases so far this year. More than 200,000 people are expected to sue by the end of the year, numbers the President of the Isapres Association says is unsustainable.
Credit:
Paige Sutherland/The World
“Isapre has a big problem because obviously, this is not sustainable,” said Gonzalo Simon, president of the Isapres Association.
Simon said Isapre is willing to make some concessions to put an end to these lawsuits, though, in the past, it’s fought any reform.
“Today we have many experts and many economists who say this is the best way to do it,” he said. “But maybe society doesn’t want these discriminatory prices, so the politicians are the ones who have to choose what system they want.” He also said that whether or not their fees are discriminatory is "subjective."
Under a new government proposal, people with pre-existing conditions could get private coverage. Women would pay the same rates as men. And the government would more or less regulate rate increases, so Isapres wouldn’t be sued as often.
Some critics say that instead of tinkering with private coverage, Chile should focus on improving its public system.
But for now, it’s up to congress to decide whether to approve the private reforms. If it doesn’t, Isapres should expect the lawsuits to keep coming.
Maria Beraldo has the word “Trouble” emblazoned in bold black letters on her bright red leggings. For this Brazilian lesbian singer-songwriter, speaking openly about political issues is just part of who she is.
Beraldo’s first solo album, “Cavala,” is a feminist anthem that presents a strong counter-balance to Brazil’s far-right President Jair Bolsonaro, notorious for his anti-woman and homophobic remarks.
For Brazilian lesbian singer-songwriter Maria Beraldo, speaking openly about political issues is just part of who she is.
Credit:
Sonia Narang/The World
Beraldo is gaining fans with her provocative, opinionated lyrics, and has found a niche audience in Brazil, especially among young women and girls and many in the LGBTQ community.
“We have something like a dictator,” Beraldo says. “Our government is being closed. One of the most powerful technologies of oppression is to silence a lot of stories. In Brazil, we have a lot of artists and people and everybody thinking and talking about freedom and putting [themselves] out.”
While Brazil has relatively strong legal protections for LGBTQ people, anti-gay violence runs high. And Beraldo fears it’s getting worse under Brazil’s recently-elected leader.
Related: Activist Marielle Franco's followers seek justice for her murder
“We are actually in a moment now that is really complicated,” Beraldo says. “It’s really hard in Brazil now, [homophobia] is growing.”
In the poignant, direct lyrics of her song “Maria,” Beraldo creates a world revolving around women, telling her story through the lives of her mother and grandmother.
Beraldo says men have long been telling stories through their own perspective, leaving women out. “A lot of histories are being silenced,” she says. “My album is telling my history, and I think it is really powerful for a lesbian woman to say her history.”
São Paulo-based sociologist and music researcher, Pérola Mathias, says this music can have an impact on Brazilian society.
“Traditionally, we don’t have so many singers that [sing] as a lesbian, putting this kind of voice in the lyrics ... Maria Beraldo is doing this."
Pérola Mathias, sociologist and music researcher
“Traditionally, we don’t have so many singers that [sing] as a lesbian, putting this kind of voice in the lyrics,” Mathias says. “Maria Beraldo is doing this. When she passes this kind of message, it’s [a] kind of resistance forming in the public, in an artistic way, in an aesthetic way, and in a political way.”
Beraldo started as a classically-trained clarinetist, then went on to study music at the prestigious University of Campinas — São Paulo, where she became immersed in the city’s music scene. Now 31, Beraldo says she’s been playing music for as long as she can remember.
“I actually started in my mother’s body, because she’s a musician,” Beraldo says. “My parents are musicians, so I always had this at home. My mother opened a music school when I was 6 years old so I started to study there, and I had this privilege of having a music school as my house.”
Related: Will Brazil's women writers lose progress under Bolsanaro?
Beraldo’s album is titled “Cavala,” which is also the name of the first single she recorded on her album. The word “cavalo” is masculine and means horse in Portuguese. But the word “cavala” can be used as an offensive term for women who are attractive by common societal standards, but considered robust or too strong, like a man.
In her song “Cavala,” Beraldo reclaims the word.
“I think that word [cavala] has the strength of the animal and the strength that was taken from us.”
Maria Beraldo, Brazilian musician
“I think that word has the strength of the animal and the strength that was taken from us,” Beraldo says. “Like, men are strong, men are brave, men are like the horse. And, actually, we are that. We are supporting everything. Women had that strength much more than them ... So, it was a word that started to come out in my life because of this music.”
Pérola Mathias, the Brazilian sociologist and music expert, says Beraldo’s music sends a message to girls and young women, especially in an era when they’re growing up “hearing the most important power of the country saying women [are] not good to [be in certain roles.]”
“Maria Beraldo can be an example of a free woman for them, and I think it’s important in this conservative moment."
Pérola Mathias, sociologist and music expert
“Maria Beraldo can be an example of a free woman for them, and I think it’s important in this conservative moment,” Mathias says. “This music can say to them, “You can do whatever you want being a woman.’”
Related: Brazil's first transgender Afro Brazilian lawmaker
Record label executive Gui Jesus Toledo, who runs RISCO, the label that signed Beraldo, says Beraldo's songs are reaching young people across Brazil.
“Maria receives many messages from young girls, mainly from Instagram, saying ‘Maria, thank you very much, you made me realize how I can be a lesbian girl in this male chauvinist era and society,’” Toledo says. “So, I think it’s really, really important."
Beraldo’s live concerts attract thousands of people across Brazil, and she spreads her message through social media as well. Her Instagram following has grown to more than 16,000 people.
“I think that a lot of women and a lot of lesbian women listen to my history and identity, and that gives a lot of strength [to] those people,” Beraldo says. “The way that we can start to change things is to let each person tell her history.”
The first real shelter that Nadereh Shahbazi and her family slept in when they arrived in Greece was a tent pitched under a piece of red, corrugated iron that shielded them from the relentless Athens, Greece, sun. But when it rained, their tent floated in the mud.
The family of three escaped from their home in Afghanistan fearing for their lives, and after weeks of homelessness in Athens, the family managed to find a tent in a refugee camp on the city's outskirts.
Shahbazi was full term and could have given birth in the tent at any moment if Sahar Kamrani, a refugee advocate, hadn’t walked by and found her.
“They were sleeping next to a tree in the mud of the camp in Malakasa,” Kamrani said.
Related: Some refugees in Greece wish they hadn't won their cases
The Malakasa camp is run by the International Organization for Migration, and most asylum-seekers receive a container for shelter. But for newcomers, especially those not yet registered with the Greek government, pitching a tent is the only option.
Kamrani, a refugee from Iran who now runs an organization called One Heart to help newly arriving asylum-seekers, immediately brought Shahbazi to a doctor she knows. “I work with a Greek gynecologist who, once a month, provides free services for the refugees,” Kamrani said. That doctor wrote a letter that helped Shahbazi check into a Greek hospital where her baby was born. It was a complicated cesarean section birth.
Yet, days later, she was back under the tree, now with a newborn.
Inside a container in the Malakasa refugee camp in Athens, refugee advocate, Sahar Kamrani (right) looks at paperwork that Nadereh Shahbazi (left) doesn't understand. Kamrani spends her days helping families navigate the complicated asylum process in Greece.
Credit:
Matt Rogers/The World
When the migrant crisis started in Greece in 2015, men made up the majority of arrivals. Although migrant numbers have decreased dramatically since 2016, asylum-seekers continue to arrive on Greece’s shores. Now, almost two-thirds of the asylum-seekers are women and children. Today, there are as many children seeking asylum in Greece as there are adult men. Greece continues to struggle with how to accommodate migrants — especially this new population of asylum-seekers.
Shahbazi fled Afghanistan two years ago, and she and her husband and toddler ended up in a camp in Turkey where conditions were horrible. She learned she was pregnant, and the family fled again in search of better conditions, only to land in Athens a few weeks before she delivered her baby. They had no place to live.
“We slept in a park for several nights,” Shahbazi said.
“We went every day and cried and cried and cried; whatever we said, it didn’t really help at all.”
Nadereh Shahbazi
When they finally made their way to the Malakasa refugee camp, Shahbazi and her husband begged managers for a container. But they were rebuffed and told to leave. “Don’t waste your time, don’t stay in this camp because you’re not registered,” Shahbazi said she was told. “We went every day and cried and cried and cried; whatever we said, it didn’t really help at all.”
The family continued to live in a tent next to a trash pile. They had no other option.
Greece has come a long way in a very short period when it comes to infrastructure to handle over 1 million asylum-seekers processed since 2015. The majority arrive on boats, so Greek authorities set up official registration offices on various Greek islands such as Lesvos and Samos. Once registered, refugees receive a place to live in a refugee camp and a cash card to buy food and other basics.
Asylum-seekers can also register from Athens, the capital, where Shahbazi and her family attempted to register, but the process proved byzantine and ineffectual. Shahbazi was simply told to leave Athens. “They said go back to [an] island and get started from there — you have to be relocated [to Athens] from an island.”
Azimollah Shahbazi, Boshra (age 2), Nadereh Shahbazi and baby Mustafa are shown in their container home (left to right) — given to them after Mustafa was born — by the International Organization for Migration in the Malakasa refugee camp in Athens.
Credit:
Matt Rogers/The World
Related: Syrian refugee 'hero swimmer' Sara Mardini is out of prison. She plans to keep helping refugees.
After the baby was born, Kamrani successfully pushed the IOM to give the family a container even though they had not yet successfully registered as asylum-seekers. While Shahbazi is grateful for the small container, she struggles to feed herself, her baby and the family. They have no money to buy food and because they still have not managed to register, they have not received a cash card.
“I have to eat, myself, to be able to have more nutrition in my breast milk to give to my baby to gain weight. That’s the best way. But I don’t have food to eat so as a result, my milk doesn’t have the power to grow the baby.”
Nadereh Shahbazi
“I have to eat, myself, to be able to have more nutrition in my breast milk to give to my baby to gain weight. That’s the best way,” Shahbazi said. “But I don’t have food to eat so as a result, my milk doesn’t have the power to grow the baby.”
The baby is 1 month old. He is tiny and now drinks formula. Yet, his mother doesn’t have money to buy all the formula he needs.
Kamrani said many migrant mothers struggle to buy milk. “Formula is very, very expensive in Greece, the majority cannot even afford [to] buy it,” Kamrani said. “So, in order for them to make it through the month, they add more water into it so they can make it go through the whole month.”
Watering down infant formula is not uncommon in poor families — and it means less caloric intake and less nutrition for the baby. It can also lead to seizures and brain damage.
Providing adequate supplies of infant formula might seem like basic help for refugee families, but Greece is still climbing out of its own economic crisis and doesn't provide it.
Boris Cheshirkov, a spokesperson for the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees in Athens, said the Greek government is doing its best, but that other basics, like shelter, are still the priority.
“What has Greece done? In 2015, it could accommodate 1,000 asylum-seekers. Today, it can do it for 50,000 asylum-seekers [with] adequate conditions. ... However, we don’t have 50,000 asylum-seekers, we have 80,000 asylum-seekers and refugees.”
Boris Cheshirkov, United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees in Athens
“What has Greece done? In 2015, it could accommodate 1,000 asylum-seekers. Today, it can do it for 50,000 asylum-seekers [with] adequate conditions,” Cheshirkov said. “However, we don’t have 50,000 asylum-seekers, we have 80,000 asylum-seekers and refugees.”
A growing number of refugees are babies, and for some, their situations are worse than their mothers having to water down the formula, Cheshirkov said. “We do have infants [who stay] in tents that don’t have access to water and sanitation, to lighting and electricity,” he said.
There are not enough containers to house the families that arrive almost daily at the Malakasa refugee camp in Athens, so the camp has some bigger tents where asylum-seekers can pitch their own tent.
Credit:
Matt Rogers/The World
Related: Refugee women in Greece are moving forward. But many men around them are not.
There’s also very little medical care for infants in refugee camps. Pediatric nurse Alina Steinhausen said the situation is dire.
“In most [refugee] camps, there is only one clinic with one or two doctors, which is funded by the government, and usually that doctor might not be a pediatrician or someone who is especially qualified for babies and children,” she said. “And doctors are only there for two hours a day.”
Steinhausen volunteers with an international nongovernmental organization called Medical Volunteers International. She’s based at a clinic in Athens where asylum-seekers get free medical care. Parents, too, can ask a doctor about their health, as few have the chance to get professional medical care in the camps.
On a recent June morning, as a doctor at a Seeds for Change clinic in central Athens examined a baby, he determined a standard cream would help clear up a rash the baby had for weeks. Yet, there was not enough supply of the medicinal cream in the clinic to give the parents a full dose. The baby received all they had — enough for a few days of application.
Children’s physical health is precarious among the refugee population, but brain development is also a concern, according to Cherilyn Orr, a brain and trauma expert originally from Canada. Parents, many with post-traumatic stress disorders, are under immense pressure, and Orr sees mothers with little space to soothe or engage their children.
“When you have a mother that has PTSD, she doesn’t have the capacity to help a child to feel safe and valued and so their brains are not developing — they’re living in fear.”
Cherilyn Orr, brain and trauma expert
“When you have a mother that has PTSD, she doesn’t have the capacity to help a child to feel safe and valued and so their brains are not developing — they’re living in fear,” Orr said.
Orr trains refugee parents in how to create a safe and nurturing environment for their littlest ones, even when they might be living in an unsanitary tent — or homeless.
“A child, when they’re hurt, sick and afraid and those synapses connect that nobody was there, ‘I cried, nobody came to me [so] I stopped crying,’ that damages the child’s brain,” Orr said.
Orr said healthy brain development matters just as much as securing a safe place for a baby to live and receive nutritious food. In Athens, Orr pushes a 1-year-old Syrian girl in a stroller. The girl’s mother is homeless, now with a newborn as well, and has struggled to care for her toddler. Orr offered to take in the 1-year-old while her mother went to the hospital to give birth. Two months later, the little girl is still in Orr’s care.
“Nobody has room to take a nine-month pregnant woman with a 12-month-old baby. Nobody,” Orr said. “That needs to change. There need to be safe places for these moms to go where they can let these children just be children.”
After giving birth, the Syrian mother, M., who did not want her name to be used for fear of retaliation in her case, has been unable to find a place to live. Each night, she takes her newborn in search of a place to sleep. Because her baby cries a lot, no one she stays with allows her more than a night or two.
Orr wishes she could take in M. and her baby, too, mostly to keep the family together, but she can’t. And she knows there are thousands more around Athens like this very family. The solution, she said, has to be bigger than one Canadian mom helping one Syrian refugee mom.
“Where’s this mom even going to get food to feed her [children]? Where’s she even going to get diapers? Who’s going to help her? That’s a question I think we as a society need to answer.”
Cherilyn Orr, a brain and trauma expert
“Where’s this mom even going to get food to feed her [children]? Where’s she even going to get diapers? Who’s going to help her? That’s a question I think we as a society need to answer,” Orr said.
Containers that house asylum-seekers in the Malakasa refugee camp are small. Many families construct makeshift shelters adjoining their container for storage of belongings and added space.
Credit:
Matt Rogers/The World
On a regular visit with M. and her newborn, Orr learned the baby was not doing well. She asked her friend, a pediatrician in a wealthy Athens neighborhood, to examine the newborn. M. told Dr. Arlene Chung that the baby spits up all the formula and cries nonstop.
The baby wailed as Dr. Chung examined him and she determined the baby was hungry. She opened a cabinet and pulled out a sample sachet of organic infant formula, mixed it up and in a flash, the baby sucked down the entire bottle. He gave a burp and then fell fast asleep. No spit up, no more crying.
“He was just hungry,” Dr. Chung said, after completing a thorough examination and finding everything else to be normal. She pulled out about two dozen of the formula samples, every single one she had, and gave them to M. It was a huge relief for this refugee mom, and she left the office with a content baby and a bag full of formula.
Yet, this organic formula is more expensive than other kinds. On the ride back to the tiny apartment where M. and her baby would sleep for the night, she calculated that maybe, if she watered it down, she'd have a week's worth of food for her baby.
Then it's back to the cheap stuff he doesn’t tolerate.
Editor's note: Deepa Fernandes is a Pacific Oaks College Early Childhood reporting fellow, which is funded in part by First 5 LA.
On weekday mornings, the smartphones of more than a hundred Istanbul residents light up with a cheery Arabic greeting and pictures of home-cooked Syrian dishes that Samar al-Mallah plans to cook that day.
Then Mallah, a mother of four, waits for the orders to come in. And they do.
“I believe you can reach the heart of a person through food,” Mallah said. “Food is something you can send a lot of messages with. You can put all of your love, all of your feelings. You can build relationships through food.”
There is shish barak, a classic dish of toasted meat dumplings, stewed in a savory yogurt sauce; the tangy brightness of tabbouleh, chock-full of fresh tomatoes and cucumbers; and Mallah’s personal favorite are the kibbeh — spiced, fragrant ground meat packed and fried in a bulgur casing.
A plate of kibbeh, freshly fried and fragrant with cumin, cinnamon and cloves. “It’s really very difficult to prepare ... I have my own way, which makes it really special,” says Samar al-Mallah.
Credit:
Durrie Bouscaren/The World
“Rarely, I find people who cook it the same way that I do,” she said.
Life was not always like this. When the war in Syria started in 2011, Mallah’s husband, Youssef Alozon, worked as an electrical engineer in Damascus. She stayed home, raising their four kids. Sure, her kibbeh was the best in town — though she never thought she’d earn a living with it.
Then the war hit home.
Related: Syrian war scatters these 6 siblings across 6 different countries
“My husband was arrested for a month and a half. So we decided to flee,” Mallah says.
For the past four years, they’ve made a home in Istanbul alongside more than half a million Syrian refugees. The job market is difficult for both Syrians and Turks — and Turkish businesses often only hire Turkish speakers. Work permits for Syrians are expensive and often difficult to come by.
The family sank their savings into a couple of business ventures, hoping to earn a living in a tough job market. Unfortunately, none of them worked out.
“We were out of money, and then we thought about an idea to start with, with no cost — almost no cost."
Yousef Alozon, Karadish Kitchen, Istanbul, Turkey
“We were out of money, and then we thought about an idea to start with, with no cost — almost no cost,” Alozon says. “So we started with the equipment and tools that we have in our kitchen.”
One day, their adult daughter mentioned how bad cafeteria food was at her office. So Mallah sent her in with a homemade lunch to share with her coworkers. The feedback was glowing.
“They said that my food really tastes the same, like their mother’s food,” Mallah said. “That feedback gives me the power to overcome the difficulties.”
During a family meeting, another daughter thought of the project’s name: Karadish Kitchen. In Syrian Arabic, karadish translates to “large chunks of meat” or — a bit of extra weight.
“It’s a metaphor actually; we use the name to show that we are generous with the food, that it’s really rich,” Mallah explains.
Word started to spread to other offices, small businesses and friends of friends. Samar Mallah and Youssef Alozon were invited onto a cooking show, profiled on an Arabic-language YouTube channel. They caught the attention of a local foodie website seeking out Istanbul’s hidden culinary treasures, “Culinary Backstreets.” In addition to Mallah’s dishes, Alozon started making cookies and pastries to sell alongside the meals.
Related: For Syrian refugee children in Turkey, a 'home with dignity' is hard to find
The Whatsapp group swelled with phone numbers from Syria, Iraq, Yemen, Algeria, Somalia, Saudi Arabia. The family’s customers in Istanbul all seemed to have one thing in common — they were living far from home.
To keep up with demand, Mallah capped the group at 150 people, but the message was clear. In Istanbul, there is a market for homemade food. Though perhaps not for the same reasons that Blue Apron and Grubhub took off in the United States.
While Samar al-Mallah is the head chef of the operation, her husband Youssef Alozon leads the way with the desserts and pastries. Cinnamon rolls are among his favorite recipes.
Credit:
Durrie Bouscaren/The World
Istanbul has one of the largest refugee populations in the world, as well as a significant number of international workers and students. Young Turks, too, are increasingly moving away from their extended families to live in the city.
“We feel that we are feeding our children. ... Being here alone, as singles, working. Nobody’s taking care of them. But we feel very satisfied when we can make them happy, even from a meal.”
Samar al-Mallah, Karadish Kitchen
“We feel that we are feeding our children,” Mallah said. “Being here alone, as singles, working. Nobody’s taking care of them. But we feel very satisfied when we can make them happy, even from a meal.”
When customers were asked what Mallah’s food means to them, sent through their WhatsApp group, the responses flooded back in English and Arabic.
“I am in love with this family, this beautiful family,” one young woman said.
“She’s the mother who’s taking care of us, and cooking our food that we miss and can’t live without. ... You are a mother to us. May God keep you, above our heads.”
Karadish Kitchen customer in Istanbul from Damascus, Syria
“She’s the mother who’s taking care of us, and cooking our food that we miss and can’t live without,” said one man, originally from Damascus. “You are a mother to us. May God keep you, above our heads.”
Mallah and Alozon are now finishing up a small business training program in Istanbul, called the LIFE Project. At the end, they’ll compete for a small grant to expand their business into a commercial kitchen.
Samar al-Mallah stirs a pot of shish barak, a dish of toasted meat dumplings cooked in a savory yogurt broth and served with an aromatic rice blend.
Credit:
Durrie Bouscaren/The World
In the meantime, Mallah has started a new Whatsapp group, to help other Syrian women start kitchens of their own. Together, they troubleshoot problems and share tips on decorating, marketing and dealing with customers.
“I like to have the chance to help others, to spread love,” she said. “Especially in this time when we have the conflict, it’s important to have these kinds of feelings.”
Translations were provided by Fatma Inceruh.
Marcela Juan’s work is grueling, but important. As a prosecutor in Lomas de Zamora, a suburb 45 minutes outside of Buenos Aires in Argentina, she handles some of the area’s most disturbing cases. Juan specializes in cases of domestic violence, and femicide — the killing of a woman or girl based on her gender.
Juan has been doing this kind of work for over a decade and her caseload is full. She says that especially over the past four years, these types of cases have continued to rise. By her account, so far in 2019, at least one woman has been killed per day in this province.
As a testimony to that fact, today marks Juan’s 15th day in a row in the office, and her desk is littered with stacks of papers laying out some of these horrifying crimes, which are all too common across Argentina.
Violence against women is rising nationwide — and Juan is among a number of women trying to solve the problem. Some are working on legislation while others are taking to the streets, making their voices heard.
Sometimes, this job is very daunting, but Juan says that ever since she can remember, she wanted to be a lawyer and fight for justice for women.
“Since I was a kid, I was always mediating disputes between friends. I was always defending someone who needed my help,” she said.
And, she has her daughter to think about. That keeps her going.
“I worry about my daughter because the realities I deal with at my job are cruel and more raw. Sometimes, I feel paranoid.”
Marcela Juan, prosecutor, Buenos Aires Province
“I worry about my daughter because the realities I deal with at my job are cruel and more raw. Sometimes, I feel paranoid,” said Juan, whose 9-year-old daughter’s artwork can be found in and among the piles along with used maté beverage cups in her office.
Related: ‘Maternity jail’: Women in Argentina and the US find ways around restrictive abortion laws
In Argentina, domestic violence and femicides are a huge problem. According to the Buenos Aires Times, in January 2019, at least 27 femicides were recorded across the country. That’s a sharp rise over last year when in the first month of 2018, 19 femicides took place in Argentina.
In Buenos Aires, some 46% of femicide victims were killed in their own homes, according to Mujeres de la Matria Latinoamericana (MuMaLá), a feminist advocacy organization in Buenos Aires. Almost 40% of the January femicides were committed with a firearm. Many of the perpetrators were the women's partners or ex-partners.
Juan blames the misogynistic, conservative society where men consider women their property. She says there’s a profound lack of understanding of domestic violence in Argentina.
“This is a justice system written by men, for men.”
Marcela Juan, prosecutor, Buenos Aires Province
“This is a justice system written by men, for men,” Juan said.
Marcela Juan is the prosecutor for Lomas de Zamora, a suburb outside of Buenos Aires, Argentina. Ever since she can remember, she wanted to be on the side of vulnerable people who needed her help. Today, she specializes in cases of violence against women.
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Florencia Trincheri/The World
Juan’s office is tucked away on a residential street in Lomas de Zamora, a poor area on the outskirts of the city. Paved roads give way to pockmarked streets. Some of the stucco houses that dot the neighborhood are neatly kept with flowers and the occasional mural of the Argentine saint, Gauchito Gil, painted on the side.
Related: Argentina is divided over abortion — even the feminists
This afternoon, Juan flips through one file — a murder case. She reads aloud the testimony from the slain woman’s family: “This is testimony from the mother of this woman. She says that her husband was very jealous. He controlled her cellphone; he made her stop caring for her other children from another man. And ultimately, he killed her.”
The case is about to go to trial, and Juan ordered the husband to remain in custody because she fears he won’t show up in court.
She says this kind of case is typical. Unfortunately, Juan never sees women in preventative stages — it’s always after the violence against them has become so severe, they’ve gone to the hospital, or they’re dead.
Roxana Fontana, one of Juan’s legal assistants, agrees with Juan’s assessment.
Sadly, she says, these cases often follow a familiar pattern: “These cases often start with a restraining order. Then the man doesn’t respect it, and the violence just keeps happening. Sometimes what happens is, a woman gets in a circle of violence where she doesn’t tell friends or family and then all of a sudden, she ends up dead,” Fontana said.
Juan says money for prevention programs or shelters does not exist in this city. Argentina is facing a growing economic crisis that has put many people out on the streets. In fact, people in her office must bring their own toilet paper. The window shades are falling apart, revealing a cracked window.
Related: Mandatory sex ed curriculum stirs controversy in Argentina
The state of affairs compounds the problem of violence against women.
“There is a lack of resources; women often have no places to go. There aren’t enough shelters or services so sometimes they just stay.”
Marcela Juan, prosecutor, Buenos Aires Province
“There is a lack of resources; women often have no places to go. There aren’t enough shelters or services so sometimes they just stay,” Juan said.
Drawings from Marcela Juan's 9-year-old daughter can be found on her crowded desk at work.
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Florencia Trincheri/The World
That’s something that Congresswoman Carla Pitiot is working on. She’s among a group of lawmakers committed to ending domestic violence. In January of this year, they called for President Mauricio Macri to declare a state of emergency after a surge in femicide cases were reported nationwide. Pitiot says while things are tough in Argentina, the laws are a model in the region.
“Femicide is specifically included in the penal code. If you kill a woman, it’s not only a homicide, but if you kill that woman because she is a woman, it’s a femicide. And, you have a longer sentence.”
Argentine Congresswoman Carla Pitiot
“Femicide is specifically included in the penal code. If you kill a woman, it’s not only a homicide, but if you kill that woman because she is a woman, it’s a femicide. And, you have a longer sentence.”
Despite that law being on the books, Pitiot says there needs to be more training and more preventative efforts — and this requires a budget, something Argentina is struggling with right now. To Pitiot, the lack of money being spent on preventative efforts means more women die.
“The budget given to the agency in charge of creating policies for women only gave them 11 pesos per year per woman, which is basically the equivalent of 25 cents per year per woman. With that budget, you cannot apply any policies. And while these people say they care about women, they don’t give them the money to make a difference.”
One tool that can be effective — but needs better funding — is the crisis hotline that Pitiot championed four years ago. She says they are getting many calls but women who use it need services and direct help.
Pitiot has spent her career fighting for women’s rights. A painting of her hero, Eva Perón, hangs behind her desk in her office near the National Congress. Perón was the first lady of Argentina from 1946 until her death in 1952.
“She was my inspiration for running for office. She fought for the right of women to vote,” Pitiot said, pointing to the Andy Warhol-style depiction of Perón in her office.
Congresswoman Carla Pitiot is among a group of lawmakers committed to ending domestic violence in Argentina.
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Florencia Trincheri/The World
Others have also put forward laws to protect women.
The Micaela Law passed last December. It’s named after Micaela García, a 21-year-old activist and student who was found murdered in 2017 in the city of Gualeguay, 140 miles north of Buenos Aires.
The law is aimed at training judges and law enforcement on how to better deal with cases of gender violence.
Earlier this year, prominent actress Thelma Fardin started to work with lawmakers on a bill that would remove the statute of limitations involving crimes of sexual abuse. Currently, the law is only aimed at prosecuting crimes that occur when a person is under 18. She wants to change it so the statute of limitations is removed for everyone.
It's a cause that Fardin has a personal stake in. Her accusations of sexual abuse against actor Juan Darthés rocked Argentina late last year. She alleges that Darthés assaulted her in 2009 while they were both starring in the hit series “El Patito Feo,” or “Ugly Duckling.” Fardin was just 16 and Darthés was in his mid-40s.
Laura Azcurra is part of a 50-member collective of actresses that held a press conference in support of Fardin last December.
Azcurra says that as an actress, sexual assault occurs all the time in Argentina. And the actresses coming together, yes it was kind of a #MeToo moment for them.
“There was the historical aspect of that event. We didn't realize it at the moment, but we were unraveling something that has been quiet for a long time and because, well, we called it an awakening for women.”
Laura Azcurra, actress, Argentina
“There was the historical aspect of that event. We didn't realize it at the moment, but we were unraveling something that has been quiet for a long time and because, well, we called it an awakening for women.”
The movement, with a hashtag by the same name, #NiUnaMenos or “not one woman less,” has also continued to gain momentum since hundreds of thousands of women called for a nationwide strike in October of 2016 to protest violence against women.
Juan says she’s glad this issue is getting attention.
Marcela Juan is glad there is more visibility given to cases like the ones she deals with, but for now, she’s still worried about the stacks of cases still on her desk — ones she hopes she can solve and bring closure for victims’ families.
Credit:
Florencia Trincheri/The World
“Yes, I’m glad we have these movements that encourage and empower women. But how many women have to die before we realize that it’s a problem. The numbers of women being killed are still so high.”
Marcela Juan, prosecutor, Buenos Aires Province
“Yes, I’m glad we have these movements that encourage and empower women. But how many women have to die before we realize that it’s a problem. The numbers of women being killed are still so high.”
New laws are one thing but a budget to make sure those laws are enforced is another. Argentina is in the middle of an economic crisis and many agencies, including the one Juan works for, are hurting.
She says that more money is needed not just for her and her staff but to protect women who are vulnerable and facing abuse.
In the end, Juan says, it's good that there is more visibility given to cases like the ones she deals with, but for now, she’s still worried about the stacks of cases still on her desk — ones she hopes she can solve and bring closure for victims’ families.
Funding for this reporting was provided by the International Women's Media Foundation.
The crowd at the Parc Olympique Lyonnais in Lyon chanted "Equal pay!" as the US women's soccer team defeated the Netherlands 2-0 to win their fourth World Cup title. Before the final, US co-captain Megan Rapinoe criticized FIFA for disparities in prize money between the men and women.
FIFA president Gianni Infantino proposed doubling the total prize money of the World Cup to $60 million last week. The men’s edition in Russia last year, featuring 32 teams, had a total prize money pot of $400 million. That amount for the men will rise to $440 million for the Qatar World Cup in 2022.
In March, 28 members of the US women's national team filed a lawsuit against the US Soccer Federation, accusing it of gender discrimination.
"It certainly is not fair," Rapinoe said in an interview before the World Cup final. "We should double it now and then use that number to double it or quadruple it for the next time. That's what I mean when I talk about do we feel respected? If you really care about each game in the same way, are you letting the gap grow? I'm not saying the prize money is $450 million this time or next time around. I understand that, for a lot of different reasons, the men's game financially is far advanced than the women's game. If you really care, are you letting the gap grow, are you scheduling three finals on the same day? No, you're not."
But the pay gap is not unique to women's soccer. The World Economic Forum's 2018 Global Pay Gap report looked at 200 countries. "To date, no country has achieved parity, and only the top seven countries in the rankings have closed at least 80% of the gap," the report says.
Saadia Zahidi is a managing editor at the World Economic Forum and led the team that compiled the gender gap report.
She, too, sees the disparity between the US men's and women's teams.
"If you look at how that team is performing, what they're doing, what they're delivering, they're actually doing so much better than the male soccer team," she said.
Zahidi says in the last 10 years, the pay gap has actually widened because of increases in men's pay.
"Why is that? I think it's because ... there is still this continued gap when it comes to the care infrastructure and women are still primarily responsible for providing the care responsibilities in most families," she says. "That's one aspect that continues to lead to a situation in which women are actually not able to rise into positions of leadership or, in some cases, make it into professions that require more of a time commitment."
The World's Marco Werman spoke with Zahidi about how long it would take to close the global pay gap.
Marco Werman: So, let's look at somewhat differently in the reverse: the homecare part of this. I know some stay-at-home dads, but very few still. Won't that number have to increase?It's not just childcare. It's also elder care, it's aging societies, it's very young societies in other parts of the world. There is a broader opportunity here for job creation when it comes to essentially developing the care economy, whether that's childcare, whether that's elder care or other forms of care and division of responsibilities inside families. There are commercial solutions that are being offered and one aspect that is — and there's not a lot of evidence to support this but there's some speculation about where we could be heading in the future — where women essentially have a comparative advantage when it comes to the care sector. It's just that it happens to be a very informal sector and it happens to be a very low-paid sector. So we've actually turned that around. Use that comparative advantage and get a lot more women into well-paid, well-regulated, certified roles inside the care economy. But we're a long way from having formalized that and very few economies have started thinking about that as an actual job creation opportunity.
Related: Can quotas solve gender inequality in government?
If we're just talking about closing the gender gap, the pay gap, your research for the World Economic Forum shows that for some countries it's going to take more than 200 years to close the gap. And I'm not talking about Pakistan or Iran here, I'm speaking of the US.So the US is ranked 51 at the moment, or in last year's study out of 149 countries. And you're absolutely right — it will take more than 200 years to close that gap in the US. In fact, countries like Saudi Arabia are bound to close the gap faster if they stay on the current trajectory as compared to the United States. A large part of that stalling has to do with the sort of broader economic gender gap. A second part of it is political leadership. I think political leadership is another area where the US is lagging behind when it comes to parliamentary positions, when it comes to essentially ministerial-level positions. And, of course, the US has not had a female head of government, unlike an increasingly large number of countries that have.
Related: The ‘glass cliff’ puts women in power during crisis — often without support
Can things only get better or is there a chance for things to get even worse?In the US, there's a massive shortage, for example, of people with computer science and data science skills. Now, how is that shortage going to be fulfilled? I think a lot of companies are starting to realize they have to actually reach out into either minority groups or they have to start looking at women as part of that pipeline of talent instead of limiting themselves to the groups that they're looking at.
I'm imagining that you had to have been looking at some historical precedents to determine how events might unfold that would favor progress in closing the pay gap. I mean to say that it will take like 500 years for the gender gap to end in Iran and Pakistan or over 200 years in the US. What do you base that on?It's absolutely within our control to decide how fast we want to close some of these gender gaps. In the Nordic countries, this is not about historical inertia. This is about the policies that they are very deliberately putting in place, whether that is about mandating pay parity inside the workplace and otherwise having very significant penalization for companies that do not provide that kind of pay parity. Whether that is paternity leave, which is something that they really sort of put in place and accelerated on in the last decade only. I think this is not about historical trends moving out into the future unless we do nothing.
This interview has been condensed and edited for clarity. Reuters contributed to this report.
American financier Jeffrey Epstein pleaded not guilty on Monday to charges of sex trafficking as prosecutors accused him of luring dozens of girls as young as 14 to his luxury homes in New York and Florida and paying them for sex acts.
An indictment unsealed in federal court in Manhattan accused Epstein, 66, of arranging for girls to perform nude "massages" and other sex acts and paying some girls to recruit others, from at least 2002 to 2005.
"The alleged behavior shocks the conscience and while the charged conduct is from a number of years ago, it is still profoundly important to the many alleged victims, now young women. ... They deserve their day in court.
United States Attorney Geoffrey Berman
"The alleged behavior shocks the conscience and while the charged conduct is from a number of years ago, it is still profoundly important to the many alleged victims, now young women," United States Attorney Geoffrey Berman said at a press conference. "They deserve their day in court."
Epstein was known for socializing with politicians and royalty, with friends who have included US President Donald Trump, former president Bill Clinton and according to court papers, Britain's Prince Andrew. None of these people were mentioned in the indictment.
According to the indictment, the former hedge fund manager "intentionally sought out minors and knew that many of his victims were in fact under the age of 18, including because, in some instances, minor victims expressly told him their age."
Epstein found his underage victims by paying some of the girls he abused to recruit other girls they met at house parties or the mall. But Epstein also allegedly found victims through a man named Jean-Luc Brunel. He's a modeling scout from France who's accused of bringing girls from overseas to the US under the pretense of getting them modeling contracts. Brunel has denied the claims.
The World's Marco Werman spoke to Anita Teekah, the senior director of the anti-trafficking program Safe Horizon in New York City, about how people can be lured into trafficking by modeling contracts.
Related: Trafficking of young girls in India a growing problem amid gender imbalance
Marco Werman: Have you seen sex traffickers posing as modeling scouts before? Or modeling scouts doing things that you thought counted as sex trafficking?Anita Teekah: We have had clients who were enticed through modeling recruiters and either they had a lot of exploitation of trafficking within the modeling industry as models or they were sex trafficked after thinking they were going to enter into the modeling industry.
And how common is this kind of deal?We don't have hard numbers on how many individuals are currently being trafficked or exploited within the modeling industry. A lot of human trafficking individuals don't self-identify as human trafficking individuals because they don't know that what they're experiencing is actually human trafficking. And so this can be in the form of being trafficked and forced to provide labor as a model or to be forced to engage in commercial sexual activity.
Related: This woman says she was trafficked by a diplomat. And it happens all the time.
If you're recruited though, to model, how are you then forced to model?So, for example, you might find that if you were told you would have eight-hour work days and you would have rest periods and you would earn say, $1,000 a week, you might find that you're asked to work 16-18 hours a day, you don't earn the amount that you were told you would earn and you're not given adequate food or other nutrients in order to survive. And so, the working conditions that you're promised versus what you're actually presented with once you engage in the work can be two very, very different things.
Got it. What part of the world do these victims tend to be from?So it really depends. But it tends to be Eastern Europe or Mexico, Central America.
Related: She thought she was going to be a teacher in Kuwait — instead she was trafficked
How did the sex traffickers actually find their victims?It can be any number of ways. Now, with online internet recruiting, if you put up a website and you have ads saying we are hiring for models and the pay would be this much and you get to travel internationally and you would make this much money — that you can send home to support your family — that's clearly very enticing, especially for individuals who are coming from a more economically unstable background. For the sex [trafficked] clients that we have, a lot of times they can be recruited through the guise of romantic relationships. And so, once there is a sufficiently deep emotional attachment, then the trafficker will say, "OK, well, actually, I need you to do a favor for me. I need you to do this modeling contract. You can earn some money that would really help me out, that would help your family out." And so the individual will agree to do whatever the person is asking them to do and then they find out that it's really something very different — that it might turn out to be a sex trafficking situation.
The modeling industry seems like it lends itself to this in a big way. You've got young women, detached from their parents, flying far away. Is this industry prone to this kind of thing and what are they doing about it?It depends on what the legal framework requires. If we're talking about the United States, state-by-state they may have their own legal requirements to ensure that there is no labor exploitation and trafficking of models in the industry. If the models are being taken from country to country, then it depends on that particular modeling agency and whether they are beholden to particular country guidelines as you're moving from Paris to Milan and so on.
But within the fashion industry overall, we've seen trafficking and we've seen exploitation. We see it in the apparel industry, with the making of garments. We see it in modeling. We see it in the picking of cotton, to the creation of the thread and the silk, to sewing the T-shirts. And so, the more people you have involved, the more opaque it becomes to see who is doing what, who is responsible for what and where does the ultimate liability lie.
This interview has been condensed and edited for clarity. Reuters contributed to this report.
It’s a rainy night in mid-May, and around 50 young adults are squeezed into a small classroom in the Casa Fusa health clinic in Buenos Aires, Argentina. In breakout groups, they polish their presentations — about safe sex.
Some have Power Point presentations lined up while others offer up demonstrations, games and skits. They show how to use a condom, for both men and women, and talk about things like consent and preventing HPV and HIV.
That may not sound too unusual, but in Argentina, sexual education is a controversial topic. Many schools here don't even broach the subject even though comprehensive sex education has been mandated by law since 2006. The curriculum, known as ESI (Educación Sexual Integral or Comprehensive Sex Ed), is designed to teach children across the country about contraception, consent and how to be more inclusive of LGBTQ rights and sexuality. But critics say many schools and provinces don’t offer it in a consistent way.
Related: Argentina is divided over abortion — even the feminists
Today, the issue is getting plenty of attention because of the push to decriminalize abortion. Abortion rights activists inserted a clause into the abortion bill, which they reintroduced to Argentine Congress in May that says ESI must be taught in schools, reinforcing the existing law. Amid the abortion debate, both sides have agreed that the best way to prevent abortion is by providing sex education.
Mariela Belski is the executive director of Amnesty International in Argentina. Amnesty is one of the groups being consulted by the government on enforcing the sexual education curriculum in schools nationwide. Belski said that during the abortion debate, people on both sides agreed that teaching sex education is the best way to prevent abortions.
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Mariela Belski, executive director of Amnesty International in Argentina, remembers how interesting it was to see both sides come together and agree on fully implementing the sexual education curriculum in schools nationwide. But after an earlier version of the abortion bill was defeated last year, and abortion remained criminalized, with the exception of a few cases, this alliance fell apart.
“They changed on this,” Belski said, referring to anti-abortion activists. “And they said, ‘We don't need to have this law in the schools.’ [They claimed that it] provokes children to have more sex, and [that] this brings in gender ideology.”
Related: ‘Maternity jail’: Women in Argentina and the US find ways around restrictive abortion laws
Amnesty International is a consultant for the government in helping to enforce the law. They want to make sure it’s carried out all over the country — not just Buenos Aires. Places like Tucumán and San Salvador de Jujuy. Both cities were in the news earlier this year for separate, but similar cases: two girls, ages 11 and 12, respectively, each got pregnant after they were raped by a family member.
Students at Casa Fusa, a health clinic in Buenos Aires, Argentina, put in their own time to be here after the regular school day. They're trying to be proactive about their own sexual education.
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Florencia Trincheri/The World
Belski says that in addition to finding ways to enforce the law around sexual education, they are focused on collecting data, too — like, about how many girls get pregnant along with their ages and socio-economic status. That will help Amnesty International and others monitor the problem and make their case for comprehensive sexual education.
“The main goal of the program is to try to avoid adolescent pregnancies,” Belski said.
The students at Casa Fusa are motivated to learn on their own time. In fact, many come here after the school day is over and still have homework to do when they get home. Most arrive from neighborhoods close to the clinic and usually find out about it through word-of-mouth. The free, two-hour class happens on Monday evenings for five weeks. It goes for two hours each time.
Daniela Giacomazzo is one of the coordinators at Casa Fusa. She leads a class on sex education for young people ages 15-24. She says there is a lot of fear about the sex education curriculum in Argentina. Religious groups, she says, are falsely claiming that the curriculum promotes homosexuality.
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“Knowledge is power,” Casa Fusa instructor Daniela Giacomazzo said to the roomful of students. Yes, she says, the class is about teaching people about their bodies, but it’s also about feeling empowered to ask questions of adults.
“The fact that many young people are searching for a class like this shows how desperate the situation is regarding sex education in Argentina.”
Daniela Giacomazzo, Casa Fusa instructor
It’s meeting a crucial need, Giacomazzo told The World: “The fact that many young people are searching for a class like this shows how desperate the situation is regarding sex education in Argentina.”
And here at Casa Fusa, this isn't your typical sex ed class. During the five-week course, students also learn about gender violence, abortion and sexual diversity and inclusion. Afterward, many of them will go on to do peer-to-peer teaching about sex education.
Like Laura Moses, 19, who arrived at Casa Fusa because, she says, sex education at school was sorely lacking. She works at a political organization and wants to lead similar classes in her community, but she realized she just had a basic knowledge. She came across the Casa Fusa class on the internet.
Laura Moses wanted to take the class at Casa Fusa because she belongs to a political organization that wants to be able to teach about sexual education in the community. She said what she learned in school was totally inadequate and “crappy.”
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Back in school, “We had a class of one hour, and they taught us about feminine hygiene and how to use a condom,” she complained. “They also separated the boys from the girls.”
The more she’s learned at Casa Fusa, the more she feels shortchanged by the school system.
“I thought the class at my school, that was it. And, it had a totally heterosexual focus. When I grew up, I thought, ‘Oh what a crappy class.’”
Laura Moses, Casa Fusa student
“I thought the class at my school, that was it. And, it had a totally heterosexual focus. When I grew up, I thought, ‘Oh what a crappy class,’” Moses said.
For her, the small class size at Casa Fusa, plus the fact it's co-ed, means she can have more exchange and conversation about experiences.
Moses feels fortunate that she can take this class, but knows that many young women and girls like her who live outside of Buenos Aires don’t have the opportunity. Those areas are poorer, she says, and very conservative. She explains that there is a lot of sexual abuse in Argentina — especially among young girls. She says this class is important for them to have the tools to advocate for themselves.
At Casa Fusa, students talk openly and ask questions about how you contract HPV, which can lead to cervical cancer, and HIV and AIDS, as well as knowing your rights at the doctor’s office.
“I think it’s important because it’s not only about how to have safe sex, but it’s also about how to have a more inclusive lifestyle. It’s how to teach, how to respect and not violate the rights of other people and how to have a healthier community for all.”
Laura Moses, Casa Fusa, student
“I think it’s important because it’s not only about how to have safe sex, but it’s also about how to have a more inclusive lifestyle. It’s how to teach, how to respect and not violate the rights of other people and how to have a healthier community for all.”
Arianna Ruggero agrees. She went to a private, religious school where she was taught that sex was bad. And, of course, she says, there was nothing about homosexuality or respecting people who identify as LGBTQ or gender nonbinary.
“They only taught us about contraception and nothing about pleasure. I’m gay, and there was nothing about your own pleasure and I felt very alone,” said Ruggero, who is studying communications at a local university.
Arianna Ruggero is studying communications at a university in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She’s taking a five-week course on sex education at Casa Fusa because she wants to have more open dialogue about sexuality and LGBTQ rights.
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That ESI includes LGBTQ sexuality is a big issue for religious and conservative groups, and they have been outspoken against it.
Late last year, the hashtag #conmishijosnotemetas, which translates to “don’t mess with my kids,” started circulating among parents and conservative activists in Argentina.
A recent Facebook post from the group with the same name, Con Mis Hijos No Te Metas, featured a video advertising a planned demonstration in front of the Ministry of Education. Parents looked into the camera saying things like: “The schools will teach our children about so-called sexual and reproductive rights, encouraging them to have sex at a young age without taking into account our opinion, their parents and grandparents.”
Some have complained that the law teaches kids to have sex and masturbate. Giacomazzo from Casa Fusa complains that those attacks are basically “fake news.”
“There is also a regional attack on comprehensive sex education, with campaigns like Con Mis Hijos No Te Metas, which is related to an advancing conservatism in the region,” Giacomazzo said. “It creates a lot of fear in families ... because they [the attacks] disseminate a lot of fake news, also fake news about the content of the comprehensive sex education curriculum, and also by educational institutions, which are afraid to teach it even though it's the law.”
The organization Defensores de Mamás or Defenders of Moms, says yes, sex education is needed. They acknowledge that women they talk with need information to prevent unwanted pregnancies. But, they don’t necessarily think this law is doing it.
Guadalupe Batallán, who works with Defensores de Mamás, criticizes the law, which she says is about teaching kids about masturbation and making it OK for kids to have sex.
“We believe that this curriculum makes kids more vulnerable to sexual abuse. We think it promotes masturbation and it's harmful.”
Guadalupe Batallán, Defensores de Mamás
“We believe that this curriculum makes kids more vulnerable to sexual abuse. We think it promotes masturbation and it's harmful,” Batallán said.
Casa Fusa's Giacomazzo says that not teaching sex education can be harmful. It's also important that it's geared for all ages, Giacomazzo adds.
The data, she says, backs that up: A 2016 Ministry of Health report says that “many pregnancies that occur in teenagers under 15, and in particular under 13, are a product of sexual violence.”
“As you know, we have a lot of sexual abuse among minors. So, this curriculum makes them aware of what is a good touch and what is a bad touch from an adult,” she said.
Enrique Stola has been a psychologist for 40 years. He believes that sexual abuse of minors could be deterred if sex education were widely embraced by Argentina’s school system.
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Psychologist Enrique Stola agrees. He’s been practicing for almost 40 years as a family and adolescent psychologist and has seen dozens of abuse cases during his practice. He says the one way to combat this problem is through education.
“The way is the ESI. Of course, there is a lot of resistance and reluctance from the Catholic Church and the pope. They say it destroys the paradigm of the family.”
He cited the recent cases of the two young girls in San Salvador de Jujuy and Tucumán as prime examples of why the ESI is needed.
“Whenever kids have those words, they know who to ask for help. … But if no one tells them what their body is, what their rights are, how adults should behave with their bodies, then they are totally defenseless against any sexual abuser.”
Funding for this reporting was provided by the International Women's Media Foundation.
Luciana Angueira, a social worker in Villa Fiorito, a poor neighborhood outside of central Buenos Aires, Argentina, says many of the women she sees are looking to end their pregnancies, but don't want their husbands to know.
“That would mean they are being unfaithful — the men are very possessive,” she said. “We have some patients who don’t believe in abortion, but they still come here looking for pills because they don’t want more children.”
In Villa Fiorito, families struggle to meet basic needs — many don’t have proper drinking water — and they've run out of room in their houses, says Angueira, who has worked in the clinic here for more than a decade.
The Center of Primary Social Health is located in the heart of Villa Fiorito. Many people survive as cartoneros, sorting through trash and selling whatever they’re able to recycle.
On a cold, windy, May morning, Angueira explains how there is a big effort to clean up the neighborhood. She points to a park and small field where kids play soccer — the famous player, Diego Maradona, came from here.
“This neighborhood is not middle class, and things are very different here. Usually, by the age of 11, girls have boyfriends. By the age of 35, you have several kids and you are expected to be a poor housewife.”
Luciana Angueira, social worker, Villa Fiorito
“This neighborhood is not middle class, and things are very different here. Usually, by the age of 11, girls have boyfriends. By the age of 35, you have several kids and you are expected to be a poor housewife.”
It’s women like her patients, Angueira says, who are often left out of the abortion debate that’s playing out across Argentina. It’s a fight that’s far from over.
Abortion has been illegal here since the 1880s. It’s only permitted in cases of rape and incest and when a woman’s life is in danger. That has led many women to seek out abortions under the table: The health minister estimates that there are more than 350,000 clandestine abortions a year in the predominantly Catholic country. And the number may be much higher.
But a growing movement in the country to combat violence against women has helped bring abortion to the fore.
Angueira thinks that the whole health system in Argentina is misogynistic. Women, she explains in Spanish, are the only ones expected to get birth control and then take care of the kids’ health needs. Every month, she tends to women who need the birth control implant, Mesigynia, which is injected. They get it so their partners won’t know they’re using birth control.
There are no “feminist” or “deconstructed men” here, Angueira says.
“You cannot talk about feminism in a place like this. You cannot talk about abortion in a place like this. Women here still feel like they belong to a man.”
Luciana Angueira, social worker, Villa Fiorito
“You cannot talk about feminism in a place like this. You cannot talk about abortion in a place like this. Women here still feel like they belong to a man.”
Related: Legal abortions remain elusive in Argentina, especially for the most vulnerable
Victoria Tesoriero is the head of a national campaign to make abortion legal in Argentina.
She just got back to Buenos Aires from the Cannes Film Festival in Cannes, France, where she went to a screening of the documentary, “Que Sea Ley (Let it be Law),” about the fight to legalize abortion in Argentina. She was joined by a dozen other activists who turned out to support the filmmaker, Juan Solanas. Afterward, they walked the red carpet waving their movement's signature green scarves and chanting “solidarity for women.”
She says the international attention they received in Cannes makes a difference at home. Tesoriero is part of an organization called Católicos por el Derecho a Decidir, or Catholics for the Right to Decide. In her view, Catholicism and abortion aren’t at odds.
Tesoriero says the canonical code allows for Catholics to be in favor of abortion.
“I think that has nothing to do [with] the faith that you might have with something that is a right, and it has to do with health care. First of all, there are many documents in the church that allowed our position of supporting [to] be Catholic and support legal abortion,” Tesoriero said.
It’s politicians who use the Catholic Church to support their anti-abortion cause, she says.
But Catholicism’s influence on everyday Argentines isn’t as strong as it once was, she adds.
She says events like the Cannes screening put pressure on politicians and sends the message that women all over the world are paying attention to the issue in Argentina and beyond.
Related:Italian cities 'turn back the clock' on women’s reproductive rights
“To position the issue of abortion internationally, it [puts] more pressure [on] the Argentinian government,” she said.
Victoria Tesoriero is the head of the national campaign to legalize abortion in Argentina. She also belongs to a group called Católicos por el Derecho a Decidir, or Catholics for the Right to Decide.
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After the legislation to decriminalize abortion failed last year, Tesoriero and others kept organizing. On International Day of Action for Women’s Health on May 28, advocates like Tesoriero helped reintroduce another abortion bill in Congress.
“The bill says that every woman has the right; every woman or a person with a capacity of gestation has the right to decide to interrupt pregnancy up to 14 weeks of pregnancy. And the state has to ensure that decision. The public health system has to respect that.”
Victoria Tesoreiro
She says the bill is simple: “The bill says that every woman has the right; every woman or a person with a capacity of gestation has the right to decide to interrupt pregnancy up to 14 weeks of pregnancy. And the state has to ensure that decision. The public health system has to respect that.”
The legislation passed in the lower House, but fell short in the Senate.
Even though a similar bill failed in the Argentine Senate last summer, it energized a movement to decriminalize abortion. It also mobilized the other side to keep the restrictions firmly in place.
Argentinians go to the polls this fall to elect representatives to Congress. Carla Pitiot has been in office since 2015 and uses her voice in Congress to champion causes that affect women.
Carla Pitiot has been in office in Argentina since 2015. She helped set up a hotline for victims of domestic violence and rallied around "femininist causes," but she's against abortion.
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On the walls of her office are portraits of Frida Kahlo, a portrait of her hero, Eva Perón, and posters advertising a hotline for victims of domestic violence. She worked to set up the hotline, or consejería, and she’s pushing Congress to give men stiffer penalties when they assault women. But, despite taking up these “feminist causes,” she says, she’s against abortion.
“We’ve already decriminalized abortion in the most serious cases. Like when a woman is raped. Some countries don’t even have that.”
CarlaPitiot, Argentine Congress
“We’ve already decriminalized abortion in the most serious cases. Like when a woman is raped. Some countries don’t even have that,” said Pitiot.
During an abortion debate last year, Pitiot tweeted, “Legalizing abortion is a break in our rule of law. We have a constitutional duty to save two lives.”
La legalización del aborto es un quiebre en nuestro ordenamiento jurídico. Tenemos el deber constitucional de salvar las dos vidas, hace instantes en el plenario de comisiones. pic.twitter.com/pH45GkdqJb
— Carla Pitiot (@CarlabPitiot) June 5, 2018
She thinks a healthy debate is good.
“I am in favor of the debate. I thought it was very mature, and I’m convinced that if we were to take a vote today, it would be the same.”
Earlier this spring, on International Day of the Unborn Child, anti-abortion activists held a rally of their own.
Thousands of people marched against abortion and waving their blue scarves with the slogan of the anti-abortion campaign printed on it: “Las dos vidas,” or “Both lives,” referring to the mother and her unborn child.
A blue scarf that is the symbol of the Save Both Lives campaign sits on the back of a chair in Carla Pitiot's office.
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Guadalupe Batallán was one of those marchers. She started volunteering with the anti-abortion campaign right after the debates in Congress in 2018.
“We’re really amazed to see our message here in Argentina spreading to other countries, including the US, where I’ve even seen photos of blue scarves like ours at a march. That means there are people there who think like us, regardless of what the laws say there,” she said.
Batallán says she thinks abortion should be outlawed in all instances, including rape. And she cites a case that made headlines earlier this year of an 11-year-old rape victim who was initially blocked from getting an abortion.
“I personally am not in favor of abortion in the case of rape. Because even if someone has been the victim of a crime, that doesn’t give her the right to commit another crime, by taking another life. Plus, in terms of mental health, the trauma of undergoing an abortion simply makes the original trauma of the assault worse.”
Guadalupe Batallán, anti-abortion campaigner
“I personally am not in favor of abortion in the case of rape. Because even if someone has been the victim of a crime, that doesn’t give her the right to commit another crime, by taking another life. Plus, in terms of mental health, the trauma of undergoing an abortion simply makes the original trauma of the assault worse.”
Batallán has some personal experience recovering from the trauma of rape. Her mother was a rape victim. And although the attack didn’t result in a pregnancy, it was still traumatic.
Batallán says her group has set up centers for pregnant women in poor areas outside of the capital where they offer free food and classes. She says they want to provide alternatives for women who think they don’t have any options.
Mariela, a gynecologist at the health clinic in Villa Fiorito attends to Támara, a young pregnant patient. At the time of this photo, Támara was due any day.
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But Tesoriero says the rights she’s pushing for would protect all women. Her campaign is also working on the ground to spread the message that abortion is a health care issue and should be available to anyone.
She says it seems especially important at a time when a country like the United States might be rolling back legal protections for abortion.
“Maybe women in the US thought they would always have access to abortion, so they’ve taken it for granted. But here in Argentina, we are always on the lookout for things that can set us backward,” Tesoriero said.
Women in Argentina have to pull together, she says. They can’t afford to look back.
Funding for this reporting was provided by the International Women's Media Foundation.
Joanna, 27, a mom and a university student in Buenos Aires, Argentina, couldn’t imagine having to raise a third child. She’s spread thin as it is.
So, when she found out she was pregnant again this past spring, she thought long and hard about what to do. It wasn’t easy, but she decided to get an abortion.
That’s what brings her to Casa Fusa, a small clinic tucked away on a busy street near downtown on a sunny May afternoon.
“I’m nervous, but I’m quite sure about what I’m doing. So, that helps me to stay calm,” Joanna said from the brightly lit waiting room.
We’re not using Joanna’s full name for security reasons. Argentina has strict laws against abortion, which is banned with only a few exceptions. It has led many women to seek out clandestine abortions. But a movement to decriminalize abortion has gained traction in the predominantly Catholic country in recent years.
Related: Legal abortions remain elusive in Argentina, especially for the most vulnerable
Abortion has recently resurfaced as a hot button issue around the world: Last May, Ireland voted to repeal abortion restrictions. In April of this year, the Rwandan president pardoned 367 women imprisoned for abortion. But in Italy, where abortion is legal, most doctors refuse to perform them. And this telemedical service based in the Netherlands helps women around the world who cannot access abortion services.
By contrast, abortion has been legal in the US for decades. However, several states have recently banned abortion or made the procedure harder to access.
In fact, there has been such a groundswell, the dress worn by characters in “The Handmaid's Tale” has become a symbol for reproductive rights, with women donning the iconic scarlet cloak and white bonnet outfit at rallies worldwide. The novel, and recent TV series based on it, explores what happens when far-right, Christian extremism takes hold in the newly formed, totalitarian society of Gilead, formerly the United States, and forces women into child-bearing servitude.
Overwhelming newsWhen Joanna found out she was pregnant in April, she called a consejería, a local crisis hotline for women.
“My main goal was to go somewhere where they wouldn’t judge me, and where they wouldn’t waste my time. Because I knew I had to act fast,” she said.
They gave her information about where to get pills — misoprostol — to end her pregnancy and what would happen after taking them.
Joanna followed the instructions. She says she got nauseous, weak and feverish, but the pregnancy didn’t end. She was scared and came to this clinic for help. They charge about $250 for a surgical abortion. Joanna says she’s not ready to take care of another child.
“I already have two children, and I don’t want more. I’m good with the way things are. Plus, I’m very focused on my studies and getting a degree. So, this wasn’t planned. The first thing I thought was that I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t face this situation right now.”
Joanna, Buenos Aires, Argentina
“I already have two children, and I don’t want more. I’m good with the way things are. Plus, I’m very focused on my studies and getting a degree. So, this wasn’t planned. The first thing I thought was that I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t face this situation right now.”
In Argentina, abortion is illegal — except in cases of rape, incest and when a woman’s life is in danger. Still, there are ways to get around the law.
Virginia Braga (left) is a psychologist at the Casa Fusa clinic in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She screens people to see if they can get an abortion under the ILE Protocol.
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Virginia Braga is a psychologist at the Casa Fusa clinic. “We think that if a woman doesn't want to keep the pregnancy, she's in danger if you don't help her.”
Braga says the fact that Joanna says she’s unable to care for another child means having the baby would put her at risk. So, under the law, Joanna can get what’s known as an ILE Protocol, a legal interruption of a pregnancy.
“Yes. So, Article 86 of the penal code in Argentina says the abortion can be legal.”
Braga explains that the law allows providers to consider the whole picture of a woman’s health.
“So, it's mental health, social health and it's physical health, too,” Braga said.
But she says not all providers interpret the law this way.
In fact, just across town at Sanatorio Municipal Dr. Julio Méndez, a large public hospital, the chief physician, Dr. Eda Ebad Monetti, says she wouldn’t perform an abortion.
Dr. Monetti’s office is a light-filled space decorated with saints and a crucifixion cross on the wall. She wears a necklace with a string of medals devoted to various saints. She’s Catholic, devout, and very much against abortion.
“If you kill a teenager, what you’re killing is a future adult who might be a great father or mother or a scientist that develops a cure for cancer. The same is true for that cell egg; what you’re killing is a human being that is going to be someone someday.”
Dr. Eda Ebad Monetti, Buenos Aires, Argentina
“If you kill a teenager, what you’re killing is a future adult who might be a great father or mother or a scientist that develops a cure for cancer. The same is true for that cell egg; what you’re killing is a human being that is going to be someone someday.”
Dr. Eda Ebad Monetti is the head physician at Sanatorio Municipal Dr. Julio Méndez. She's against abortion and doctors at her hospital have refused to perform them, even in cases of rape or when a woman's life is in danger. In extreme situations like that, they refer the woman to another hospital or doctor.
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At Julio Méndez, the doctors have conscientiously objected to doing abortions — even in the case of rape or when a woman will die as a result of pregnancy. In extreme situations like those, Dr. Monetti says to comply with the law, they refer women to other hospitals or other doctors who will perform abortions.
The push for abortion rights in ArgentinaIn Argentina, abortion has been criminalized for more than 100 years. In 1921, the law was amended, allowing for exceptions to be made when a mother’s life is at risk or when a woman has been the victim of rape or incest.
Estela Soaje, a doctor who works at a government-run clinic in Lomas de Zamora, a small suburb outside of Buenos Aires, wants to see abortion legalized.
“Women in Argentina are in a ‘maternity jail.’ They might not want to have such a large family, and they don’t even think abortion might be an option for them. That’s why we are fighting for a legal abortion.”
Estela Soaje, doctor, Lomas de Zamora clinic
“Women in Argentina are in a ‘maternity jail.’ They might not want to have such a large family, and they don’t even think abortion might be an option for them. That’s why we are fighting for a legal abortion,” Soaje said.
Estela Soaje (right) and Marcela Lacomo work at a government-run clinic in Lomas de Zamora, a suburb outside of Buenos Aires, Argentina. They see hundreds of women every week for health checkups, exams and abortions.
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The color green has become associated with the abortion rights movement in Argentina. Thousands of abortion rights activists with green scarves tied to their backpacks and around their wrists could be seen marching and chanting on the streets of Buenos Aires last year as Congress debated a bill decriminalizing abortion. It didn’t pass.
Virginia Braga is a psychologist at the Casa Fusa clinic. The green scarf on her backpack shows that she's an advocate for abortion rights.
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Florencia Tricheri/The World
Related:Italian cities 'turn back the clock' on women’s reproductive rights
Men and women on the other side of the debate celebrated the decision. They were out in the street waving blue scarves with the slogan, “Save both lives.”
Guadalupe Batallán is a young activist with the group Defensores de Mamás or Defenders of Mothers, known to carry blue handkerchiefs. Batallán doesn’t believe that Argentine Congress even had the right to debate the issue.
“This debate was not in the constitution,” Batallán said in Spanish from the Defensores de Mamás office. “We are not allowed to debate what is already a law. For that, we would have to change the law.”
Inés Pfister and Guadalupe Batallán are with Defensores de Mamás, a group that supports the Save Two Lives campaign. Both are young campaigners for the cause and think that abortion should remain criminalized. They think abortions should be illegal, no matter what.
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Speaking up for choiceMore broadly, abortion has been a polarizing issue across the globe, including the United States, particularly in the South. Some US states, like Arkansas, have long chipped away at Roe v. Wade, the landmark case protecting a woman’s right to abortion.
Arkansas state Rep. Dan Douglas, who is anti-abortion, was recently the only Republican in the state to vote against a trigger ban that would outlaw abortion — even in the case of rape or when a woman's life is in danger — if the Supreme Court overturns Roe v. Wade. Despite Douglas’ objections, it passed.
Douglas had testified from personal experience: “I am pro-life, but I'm also pro-humanity. And I recounted a situation in which my niece went through a very difficult situation. At around 20 weeks, they found out there was a lethal, fatal anomaly in taking care of the baby to term or and whenever it was born,” he said. “[The baby] might live two to three, maybe four days, but [it would] be a very miserable, excruciating painful three or four days [for the baby]. And on the doctor's advice, they chose to terminate the pregnancy; under this trigger ban, that would not be allowed.”
Dan Douglas is a representative for House District 91 in Arkansas. Despite being anti-abortion, he voted against a trigger ban because he thinks if there is a lethal fetal anamoly, women should be able to terminate their pregnancy.
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Allison Herrera/The World
Arkansas passed other abortion-related bills during the 2019 session, as well. They increased the waiting period for when a woman can get an abortion from 48 hours to 72 hours. Under a new law, only an OB-GYN can perform abortions (as opposed to a wider pool of doctors and practitioners) — even when dispensing pills for a medical abortion, and Arkansas has also banned abortions after 18 weeks.
Holly Dickson, the executive director of the Arkansas ACLU, says these new laws, if they take effect, are just as dangerous as Georgia’s or Alabama’s outright bans on abortion.
“I've been watching the Arkansas Legislature and its bills very closely for the 12 years that I've been here on staff, and there's always a slew of bills related to abortion,” she said from the organization’s Little Rock office. “It astounds me that they can come up with more and more legislation [against abortion] to run because they have regulated it up one side and down the other.”
Holly Dickson is the legal director for the ACLU in Little Rock, Arkansas. She's been working there for 12 years and during that time, she says the state Legislature has chipped away at abortion access, little by little.
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Allison Herrera/The World
Dickson explained that the state had a 12-week ban on abortions put in place in 2013 — the strictest law in the nation at the time — but it was struck down by a federal appeals court in 2015.
Dickson says she worries about state laws taking away access to abortion, little by little.
“You know, I mean, my entire life I've heard about Roe v. Wade and whether we ought to overturn Roe v. Wade. And I don't think we as a nation, together, [have] done the deep thinking behind what that really means.”
Holly Dickson, executive director of the Arkansas ACLU
“You know, I mean, my entire life I've heard about Roe v. Wade and whether we ought to overturn Roe v. Wade. And I don't think we as a nation, together, [have] done the deep thinking behind what that really means.”
Dickson rejects the notion that abortion isn’t a human right and that the law can be easily overturned because it’s not protected in the Constitution.
“So, we really don't have an appreciation for what it means to live in a country that doesn't have these protections. And I do understand people say, ‘Well, where's the right to abortion in the Constitution? Where's the right to privacy? I don't see that.’ You know what else is not in the Constitution? The right to vote,” she said. “We have more amendments to the Constitution that protect the right to vote in various ways. But if you go back and read it, there's nothing expressly in the US Constitution that says Americans have the right to vote. So that argument is a very simple one, but it also has no heft to it whatsoever.”
Back at Casa Fusa in Buenos Aires, Joanna sits in the waiting room with her mother, ready to go home.
She says at first, she had second thoughts about getting an abortion, but she’s relieved she went ahead with it.
“I feel like I have to make a huge effort to overcome the nagging question, 'Is it OK that I’m doing this?' Even though I am certain this is the right thing for me.”
“I am confident about my decision to go through with this procedure. It’s too bad that we can’t talk openly about this in the society we live in.”
Joanna, Buenos Aires, Argentina
“I am confident about my decision to go through with this procedure. It’s too bad that we can’t talk openly about this in the society we live in.”
To get the time off work, Joanna told her boss she was going to the dentist. She says her co-workers wouldn’t have approved. But she’s grateful that she had a support network that helped her get here — and get around the law.
Funding for this reporting was provided by the International Women's Media Foundation.
It’s never fun to hear the sound of your own voice. But that’s part of the job for Adele Willie, Jennesa Hinge Moli and Lavenia Yalovi.
Or at least it is now.
A year ago, they were recruited to be among the first generation of female sports commentators from the Pacific Islands. Willie and Hinge Moli are from the archipelago nation of Vanuatu. Yalovi is from Fiji.
“What I like is the tone of my voice,” Hinge Moli responds shyly during a listening exercise.
Hinge Moli and her colleagues are in a cramped hotel room on the outskirts of Montpellier, preparing for their final game of the Women’s World Cup (WWC). Their mentor, Aaron Kearney, has asked them to listen back to their first commentary, a match between New Zealand and the Netherlands.
From left: Willie, Yalovi and Hinge Moli prepare for their final Women’s World Cup commentary from their hotel room in Montpellier, France.
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Rebecca Rosman/The World
“Now remember the word we were using was ‘crispness,’” Kearney tells them. “You got to get in with your idea, communicate it crisply and fade out.”
While there’s still studying to be done, the women are already making history. Not only are they the first female sports commentators from the Pacific Islands to commentate the Women’s World Cup, but they are also doing it in their native languages. Hinge Moli and Willie broadcast in Bislama, a type of Creole and an official language of Vanuatu, while Yalovi commentates in Fijian.
“I am very proud that this year is the first time ever for doing commentary in our indigenous languages,” says Willie. “We are not here just to promote ourselves, we are here to promote our countries and also our indigenous languages.”
For Lavenia Yalovi, her commentating is an opportunity to connect with her native Fiji.
“It’s bringing the connection back to my country, my language and culture,” says Yalovi. “It enables those far away from the cities to tune in and say ‘Oh! I know this one! This one comes from Fiji!’”
Yalovi has played on three of Fiji’s national sports teams. But she had never thought of turning that experience into a commentating career. Then she received a call from Kearney, who was looking to put a team together.
Related:Chile’s historic first World Cup appearance tells a much larger story of women’s soccer
She said she would give it a try. Yalovi was introduced to Hinge Moli and Willie, who both came from media backgrounds but had less experience in sports.
Together, they’ve been able to complement their combined sports and media skills.
“It can be a bit difficult to know the technical terms because I don’t come from a soccer background,” says Willie. “But that’s why we have Lavenia.”
Related: A #MeToo moment for Afghanistan's women's soccer: 'It happened so many times'
Last November, the fledgling commentators made their debut at the Oceania Nations Cup. Their broadcast attracted the attention of FIFA (Federal International Football Association) which organizes the World Cup tournaments, who then invited them to come to France for the WWC.
While in France, they have been calling the New Zealand matches. New Zealand beat Fiji late last year to become the Pacific champions to qualify for the WWC.
Being here, Willie says she can’t stop pinching herself.
“[In Vanuatu] women don’t do commentating,” she says. “Soccer is a male-dominated sport, so I’m very proud that we’ve made it as far as we have. It’s amazing that Bislama has taken us to the other side of the world.”
While the commentators were recruited a year ago, the idea for the project started long before that.
About ten years ago, Kearney, the project’s creator, came up with the idea for a program called “Commentary for Good.”
The goal: train people from around the world to do sports commentary in underrepresented languages. He also wanted to use sports commentary as a way to deliver messages that promote the United Nations Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs), such as gender equality or access to health care.
The pioneering commentators enjoy the view before a match.
Credit:
Courtesy of Aaron Kearney
“The SDGS can only be achieved if people hear and act upon them,” he says. “All across the world, you have people who say, ‘We have sexual health clinics, but it’s hard to get people to turn up; we have vaccinations but don’t know how to get the message out.'”
Kearney wanted to intertwine these kinds of messages with sports commentary.
“Sport is a universal language, everybody understands sports and everybody is enthusiastic about it,” he says.
Related: How soccer became multilingual
Eventually, Kearney teamed up with a group called Women in News and Sport (WINS) to create the program that exists today.
Kearney eventually plans on expanding the program by recruiting more female commentators speaking underrepresented languages from around the world.
When asked if they’ll be back for the next WWC in 2023, Yalovi nods encouragingly.
“Or see other women coming on board and do this in the next WWC,” she says enthusiastically. “Even if I’m not there, I’ll say yeah, we did it! In 2019 we started it off. And look at what it’s become.”
Russian feminists paraded a 13-foot-tall model vagina down the streets of St. Petersburg on May 1, 2018, without getting arrested. It was a big win.
“[Police] arrested only those who they have orders to arrest,” says Leda Garina, director of the Eve's Ribs, a social, artistic, documentary and communication project devoted to the subject of gender discrimination. “But there were no vagina orders, so they didn’t know how to react.”
The giant vagina didn't spark police action in 2018, but participants were not so lucky in 2019. Six Eve's Ribs activists were detained.
In a country where the concept of feminism remains at best socially neutral and at worst a “mortal sin,” activists fighting for gender equality under the banner of feminism have to take success where they can get it. And it's often fleeting.
Leda Garina, director of the Eve's Ribs project in St. Petersburg
Credit:
Daniel Ofman/The World
“This year, one of the girls wore a vagina costume, and they made her take it off so right there in the middle of the May 1 parade, so she was walking basically naked in the middle of the parade and she was just showing everyone the finger,” says Garina, 37.
Activists like Garina and other women at Eve's Ribs are working to unite people interested in feminism by bringing them together in a physical space. To that end, they opened Cafe Simona — a women-only workspace by day and event space by night.
“The idea was that here you can feel at ease, because in public spaces in Russia, men always bother you,” Garina says. “Men will always come up and ask, ‘What are you writing, what are you eating, what does it say on your shirt?’ It’s terrible.”
There's a generational shift happening when it comes to feminism in Russia. Millennials and Gen Zers are online — many read English and have been exposed to the fundamental reasoning behind the concept of men and women being born equal. And after decades of repression under the Soviet Union, feminist activism is reemerging in today's Russia.
Related: Russia's youth flex their political power
“Officially, after the [1917 Russian] Revolution, all women’s rights were achieved, so therefore according to the Soviet system, feminism as a movement had no need to exist,” Garina says.
A participant attends a rally, held to support women's rights in St. Petersburg, Russia, on March 8, 2019.
Credit:
Anton Vaganov/Reuters
But the ideal of gender equality as espoused in Marxist doctrine was far from reality. Though equality was touted in principle after the Communist revolution and women's education and literacy rates rose, in practice, it looked quite different. Female participation in the labor force was not free of gender gaps and didn't translate into equality in domestic duties. Despite some strides (the Soviet space program had a woman cosmonaut decades before the US did), women were still largely expected to take on work in the home, care for children, and stand in long lines for food in addition to their “equal work” outside the home.
As the USSR was crumbling, feminism began to resurface as a more active movement. But when the Soviet Union did collapse in 1991, women faced new challenges.
“The next problem that women encountered was capitalism. Suddenly there was this new pressure where women became objectified,” Garina says. “This was not the case during the Soviet Union. This meant that women needed to look like super sexualized models in addition to doing all the housework.”
In the post-Soviet years, the main achievements of feminist activists has been “gradual conscious-raising,” pointing to issues that had rarely been in the public discourse previously, such as domestic violence, sexual harassment and discrimination against women and sexual minorities.
Related: Russia’s volunteers take on the state — and its workload
But these gains have sustained major blows. In 2017, the Russian State Duma, or lower house of parliament, eased penalties for perpetrators of domestic violence.
“The 2017 amendments symbolized a green light for domestic violence by reducing penalties for perpetrators, made it harder for women to seek prosecution of their abusers, and weakened protections for victims,” according to Human Rights Watch.
Studies suggest that at least one in five women face domestic violence, largely from partner abuse. The vast majority of such incidents go unreported — only about 3% make it to court. The 2017 law — sometimes dubbed the "slapping law” — allows first-time offenders against a partner or a child to be subject to a fine, rather than a criminal charge. It was also supported by the Russian Orthodox Church, which touts “traditional family values.”
The church has been vocally opposed to feminist groups. The band Pussy Riot was famously detained for a rebellious performance in Moscow's Christ the Savior Cathedral, then found guilty of “hooliganism motivated by religious hatred” — directly linked, by the judge, to feminism.
Pussy Riot band member Nadia Tolokonnikova looks out from a holding cell during a court hearing appealing her conviction for hooliganism in April 2013.
Credit:
Mikhail Voskresensky/Reuters
Garina of Eve's Ribs has been arrested more than once for her feminist work. But she says it won't deter her.
“My personal goal, as a creative person and as a director, is spread the word about feminism,” she says. “Therefore it needs to be funny, controversial, sexualized, but we can’t just complain. We can always complain about domestic abuse and sexual abuse, but I think that if we don’t show that we can be aggressive, none of our complaints will be heard.”
Another prominent feminist activist, Zalina Marshenkulova, 30, has taken to social media to talk directly to people. Marshenkulova runs “Woman Power” — a channel on Telegram, a popular messaging app in Russia.
Zalina Marshenkulova, a feminist activist, runs a “Woman Power” channel on Telegram.
Credit:
Daniel Ofman/The World
Her goal is to explain feminism to a mainstream Russian audience, but Marshenkulova is also known for a Russian Reebok ad campaign that sparked outrage with this slogan on Instagram:
“Don’t sit around hooked on male approval — sit on a man’s face.”
Reebok deleted the campaign, but later put the images back up, except for the controversial one.
Internet users shared screen grabs of the deleted ad:
Пишет телеграм-канал "Русский маркетинг":
Как выглядит рекламная кампания Reebok на Западе: "Никогда не извиняйся за то, что ты сильная".
Как выглядит рекламная кампания Reebok в России: "Пересядь на мужское лицо". pic.twitter.com/vdtzJ6c1Hp— дейенерис татариен (@brave__pancake) February 7, 2019
“I think this ad was good for the Russian audience because if this ad were to run in this light, vanilla, Western style, which I don’t like — something like, 'be strong, women are great' — you know, the stuff you see in European ads, this doesn’t work at all here,” Marshenkulova says. “Basically whining and saying ‘let’s respect women’ — this doesn’t work here. This is not Europe, it’s not America.”
Still, Marshenkulova's frank attitude toward Russian feminism has won her a lot of fans online — including men.
“Yes, I have very many male supporters,” she says. “They understand what I want and they understand the patriarchy kills men too, not only women.”
Marshenkulova, who grew up in a small town in Russia's far north, says she was raised to “be modest, be quiet,” but it didn't suit her personality.
Related: 'If not I, then who?’: Armed with the internet, Russia’s young people want to remake their world
“Since I was a kid, I’ve always been rowdy,” she says. “I have a strong personality, you can’t shut me up, you can’t tell me my place. My place is wherever I want it to be, so I try to pass this idea along to other women.”
As in politics, going against the status quo in Russia means taking on some risk. “Opinion makers in this country are always in danger,” Marshenkulova says. But change is happening — slowly.
“I think that one of the big victories for feminism happened just in the past two years,” she says. “Now feminists sometimes appear on television, and not too long ago we were completely invisible. It’s a big accomplishment for us that some channels started talking about feminism in a neutral tone as opposed to highly negative tone. In the past, it was all negative.”
A poster promoting “girl power” hangs in Eve's Ribs in St. Petersburg.
Credit:
Daniel Ofman/The World
Marshenkulova and Garina take different approaches to feminist activities in Russia, but they agree most activists are largely working toward the same goal.
“Some of them are radical and separatist — they want to work with women exclusively. Others are more liberal,” Garina says. “I believe that all of these movements are important and are moving in one direction because they all influence society. I am willing to work with everyone, women, men, animals, plants, as long as we actually cause some change.”
This is part three in The World's “Generation Putin” series. Marco Werman and Charles Maynes contributed reporting.
When the Chilean women’s national team, La Roja, takes the field in France, next Tuesday, June 11, it will be a dream most of the players never thought possible.
Not because of talent but because of a pure lack of resources and support.
“It was a dream to be on the national team. But the way you dreamed it wasn’t the way it was."
Iona Rothfeld, soccer player and founder of the National Association of Women Soccer Players — ANJUFF
“It was a dream to be on the national team. But the way you dreamed it wasn’t the way it was,” said Iona Rothfeld, who played on the national team for seven years.
When Iona Rothfeld first played on Universidad Católica, she had to pay to be on the team.
Credit:
José Angel/Courtesy of Iona Rothfeld
For decades, the national federation consistently underfunded women’s soccer: Women played on fields only when the men weren’t using them and didn’t have their own locker rooms. For away games, the women flew coach; meanwhile, the men flew business.
And at the elite club level, things were even worse.
“It always felt like we got the leftovers from the boys' and men’s teams. The uniforms they weren’t using were the ones we were using. We didn’t have anything. We had ourselves and our desire to play and to be there,” said Rothfeld, who also played at Universidad Católica, one of the best club teams in the country.
Unlike the male players, who get paid to play on the team, Rothfeld had to pay to be on it.
Women wanting to play soccer in Chile have an uphill battle, as they’re up against a longstanding machista culture that thinks women should stay off the field.
“Once I got injured and went to the doctors and he said this happened to you because you were playing something that is not meant for you,” Rothfeld said.
Brenda Elsey, a professor at Hofstra University, recently wrote the book “Futbolera: A History of Women and Sports in Latin America.” During her research, she came across comments such as: "Women’s soccer is terrible for marriages," "women become confident," "they get muscles that look like men," and "they are much less obedient as spouses."
“There is just total hostility to the idea of women playing soccer ... it is not hidden, it is not like this patriarchal establishment is whispering that they don’t want women to play soccer — they are shouting it.”
Brenda Elsey, professor, Hostra University
“There is just total hostility to the idea of women playing soccer, from journalism to physical education, to players themselves, from coaches from audience members,” Elsey said. “So, [it’s] always … very direct ... it is not hidden, it is not like this patriarchal establishment is whispering that they don’t want women to play soccer — they are shouting it.”
Related: A #MeToo for Afghanistan's women's soccer
In the summer of 2016, conditions for women’s soccer took a dive: Chile’s women’s national team was kicked off the official FIFA rankings and deemed “inactive” because the Chilean soccer federation more or less forgot about the women’s team and didn’t schedule a single match for two years.
“I was pissed — I was really angry with the system,” Rothfeld said.
So she started a grassroots women’s players organization called National Association of Women Soccer Players, or ANJUFF. And she began reaching out to other soccer organizations, the federation, players — both men and women — and even the government.
“Most people said to me, 'I know that needs to be done but nobody is going to care.' Sadly, that is the life we have been living so far and I wasn’t content with that, I didn’t want to just settle,” she said.
ANJUFF put constant pressure on the soccer federation, which finally started to listen.
A sign reading “Salaries, health insurance and equipment so women's soccer can keep growing” was held by screaming fans during the Chile versus Colombia home game.
Credit:
Paige Sutherland/The World
The federation hired someone exclusively to oversee the women’s division. And the national team started playing games again; last year they even hosted the region’s largest tournament, COPA América, and placed second.
In March, the national team finally got a locker room to call their own. And for the World Cup, they’re flying business class.
“There was a big change of mentality with the board’s new leadership — they really believed that professional soccer in Chile had a debt with women, so they started investing more in women’s soccer.”
Constanza Minoletti, National Association of Professional Soccer (ANFP)
Constanza Minoletti, who oversees the women’s division for the National Association of Professional Soccer, or ANFP, said ANJUFF deserves a lot of credit for these improvements but added that the organization’s new leadership also played a crucial role.
“There was a big change of mentality with the board’s new leadership — they really believed that professional soccer in Chile had a debt with women, so they started investing more in women’s soccer.”
During the Chile versus Colombia home game, it was the first time the women’s national team officially had their own locker room. It was built in March 2019.
Credit:
Courtesy of the ANFP
Related: Ada Hegerberg, first female Ballon d'Or winner, is a huge step
This year the federation invested 150% more dollars into women’s soccer than the previous year. This covers additional travel expenses, health insurance (now available to all players in First and Second divisions), as well as more referees.
But when it comes to paying the players — that’s up to the club teams. For the first time ever, a handful of women this season now have paid, professional contracts. Although it’s a small fraction, it’s a big step forward.
Nicole Fajre, 21, left the University of Chile after getting offered a paid professional contract with Santiago Morning this season. She is one of only a handful of Chilean women who have a professional soccer contract in all of Chile.
Credit:
Paige Sutherland/The World
“I’m so happy. I have dreamed of this since I was a little kid. We’ve been working so hard to make women’s professional soccer possible and now it’s finally happening,” said Nicole Fajre, who’s one of the eight players with a paid contract this year.
The Chilean government is also paying attention by making women’s soccer more accessible at a younger age, even making it mandatory in schools.
“We are now implementing women’s soccer as part of our culture as a sport that we want our children to be doing,” said Chile’s Sports Minister Pauline Kantor.
But changing the culture? That takes time.
“We are on the right path, we just need to keep pushing, keep fighting,” Rothfeld said. I hope that one day we can be seen with the same eyes that they see men playing — that it’s no wonder to see little girls playing with a ball, that people don’t get amazed because you are a girl, that they get amazed because you are so good.”
Rothfield no longer plays on Chile’s national team but she’ll be at the World Cup in the stands — cheering them on.
She lives in the US now where she’s finishing her degree in sports management. When she’s done, she hopes to rejoin the national team and maybe play in the next World Cup in 2023.
Lilit Martirosyan misses the chance to go and sit somewhere outside to drink coffee. She hasn’t been able to do that for the past seven weeks. It’s too dangerous for her to even look out her own window.
People can recognize her face now.
She became the first transgender woman to speak to Armenia’s parliament last month. A video of her speech was shared around the world and applauded by LGBTQ activists and supporters. But she’s been getting death threats since then, and she’s afraid to leave the house.
Armenia ranks as one of the worst countries to live in Europe for LGBTQ people, according to a new assessment this month by the International Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans and Intersex Association (ILGA-Europe). The post-Soviet republic came in near the bottom of the 49 countries listed, barely topping Azerbaijan and Turkey.
At a parliamentary hearing held by the National Assembly in Yerevan on April 5, Martirosyan, the president of the Right Side nongovernmental organization, called for legal protection for transgender people in Armenia who often face harassment and violence.
“I ask you to see me as a collective figure,” Martirosyan told Armenian lawmakers and activists. “I encompass in myself the tortured, raped, kidnapped, subjected to physical violence … unemployed, poor and morally abandoned Armenian transgender’s image.”
Martirosyan, herself, has been attacked multiple times on the streets of Yerevan. Three months ago, her teeth were broken and her head was badly injured, she told The World.
She says the police didn’t do anything, and that she and her community don’t feel safe.
In fact, her NGO tallied 283 crimes against transgender people who were “tortured, raped, kidnapped, subjected to physical violence, burned, immolated, knifed, subjected to murder attempts, killed” in Armenia from 2016 to 2018.
Right Side, which claims to be the first and only organization that works to ensure protections for transgender people and sex workers in Armenia and in the South Caucasus, saw Martirosyan’s speech as a victory for themselves and the rest of the LGBTQ community in the country.
But not everybody was celebrating.
As soon as Martirosyan’s three-minute speech ended, Naira Zohrabyan, a member of parliament from the opposition Prosperous Armenia Party (BHK) who chaired the meeting, asked her to leave the hall.
Zohrabyan called her speech “disrespectful,” adding that it had nothing to do with the agenda that day. The hearing was meant to cover issues of judicial reform and disability rights.
A few days later, on April 8, there was backlash against Martirosyan.
More than 100 supporters of nationalist and conservative groups led anti-LGBTQ protests in front of the National Assembly against Martirosyan and her speech, according to Radio Free Europe. A few parliamentarians verbally attacked her.
Lilit Martirosyan
Credit:
Courtesy of the Right Side
One MP said Martirosyan should be burned in Republic Square, a popular center in the middle of the capital.
Ever since then, Martirosyan and the Right Side have received dozens of death threats. The NGO closed down for a few weeks but reopened its doors on April 25.
Following Martirosyan’s speech, in abusive videos posted online, “people dressed in military uniforms declared that they would find transgender activists and kill them. Local news media published home addresses for Ms. Martirosyan and her co-workers. Someone attached an Armenian flag to Ms. Martirosyan’s home,” The New York Times reported.
Max Varzhapetyan, the community and office assistant at the Right Side, says they will continue to work because it’s their policy to be visible transgender activists.
Varzhapetyan, who’s bigender and uses they/them pronouns, says that they and Martirosyan are particularly at risk since they were both at parliament that day. The only places they go are their homes and the NGO’s office to avoid harassment and violence, Varzhapetyan says, speaking on Martirosyan’s behalf as well.
“The whole situation changed after the speech,” said Varzhapetyan, 23. “Because previously, people didn’t know who trans people were. Lilit’s speech delivered a powerful message. And even if people hate us and want to kill us, they learned about what Lilit [said].”
Martirosyan started her activism at age 13. And by 15, she started taking birth control pills for estrogen because she says there are no other options for transgender women in Armenia. Today, she goes abroad to Ukraine for hormone replacement therapy pills.
Doctors refuse to treat transgender people because of the discrimination, she says.
It’s one of the issues her NGO is working to combat.
In 2015, she became the first transgender woman in Armenia to legally change her name on her passport. The Right Side negotiated with the Civil Status Acts Registration Agency of the Staff of the Ministry of Justice to make the name change possible. Two years later, it became official policy in the country: Transgender people could legally change their names without having to provide psychological documentation or having three witnesses present, according to Varzhapetyan.
But the organization says there’s still plenty of work to be done.
A transgender person is eligible to change their passport only if they’ve undergone sex reassignment surgery in Armenia.
Although Martirosyan had the surgery, which was performed by a Russian doctor, she has chosen to keep her sex as “male” on her passport. She says she won’t officially change her gender to match her identity until every transgender person in Armenia has the right to do so, with or without sex reassignment surgery.)
Martirosyan and the Right Side have largely received international support. The United Nations office in Yerevan and the European Union both released statements condemning violence against the LGBTQ community in Armenia.
But MP Zohrabyan says the whole country was shocked by Martirosyan’s presentation on transgender rights.
“We need time for that,” Zohrabyan said in Russian. “Our church is not ready for this conversation.”
The state-financed Armenian Apostolic Church is believed to be the world’s oldest Christian institution. It’s widely seen as a major part of the country’s national identity. After Martirosyan’s speech, a priest burned incense to sanctify the area where she spoke, reported OC Media, a news outlet that covers the Caucasus region.
“Our society is completely different,” Zohrabyan said. “It’s not that of Holland, Austria or France. We need to accept our mentality the way it is.”
Although Zohrabyan was widely criticized for her reaction to Martirosyan, which some called discriminatory, BHK officials wrote a statement defending the MP.
The country’s peaceful transition to government last year, known as the “Velvet Revolution,” spurred hope for a new Armenia. For the LGBTQ community, too.
Armenian Prime Minister Nikol Pashinyan “publicly denounced any threats of violence and hate speech” on “numerous occasions,” a spokesman said in an email to The New York Times.
But many activists say that not much has changed for the community under Pashinyan, who was swept to power by the street protests.
Brett Burnham, a gay man who moved from the US to Yerevan in August 2018 to work as a public health professor at the American University of Armenia (AUA), blames the lack of dialogue around these issues.
“So, this idea that Armenians can't change or that this is just a patriarchal society might be true for now because people aren't willing to have these conversations, and the fact is — and there's data lots of data to support this — that LGBTQ people leave this country. They don't want to stay here they don't feel supported.”
According to a 2015 report by Pink Armenia, an LGBTQ rights group, 5,891 citizens left Armenia due to discrimination based on gender and sexuality between 2011 and 2013 alone.
At AUA, Burnham sensed a need for a safe space for gay, lesbian, transgender students allies on campus. That’s what led him to start a group under conditions by the school’s administration that he keep it anonymous. He would have to name it “International Students Meeting,” he said.
Students would meet informally and share coming out stories, said Burnham, who researches cancer and LGBTQ health disparities in Armenia and beyond. “These students are deeply traumatized,” he said.
“I knew there was homophobia in Armenia, but I didn’t know the extent to which it existed,” said Burnham, 35. “I was a little surprised. But then when I met the students, it was clear that they were petrified.”
He didn’t expect to be harassed himself. Especially not by his own students over email and social media.
“I have been verbally attacked and attacked via email by students viciously, and there's no consequence for them because of my sexuality and the research that I do,” he said.
In his course evaluations, one student wrote that “Dr. Burnham performed great as an instructor. In contrast, he is an extremely aggressive homosexual’s advocate.” Another student said, “this is discrimination of students, because we are imposed to tolerate something that [we] don’t want to invade our environment.”
Half a year into his tenure at the public health department, he was asked to leave and never come back by AUA, a university accredited by WASC Senior College and University Commission in California. His annual contract wasn’t renewed. Burnham says he doesn’t know why. He wasn’t given a reason. He suspects it might be because of his sexuality.
Yeva Margaryan, one of Burnham’s advisees in the public health department, said she hasn't witnessed any harassment by the administration. But, she said, it is likely many students didn’t understand why he was “talking openly about his sexuality.”
“There are a lot of [gay people] in Armenia, but not very many are open,” Margaryan, 23, said. “I just think it’s about our mentality. It’s Armenia. And our culture is like that. I just want [Burnham] to understand that he has nothing to do with that.”
AUA responded to The World’s request for comment and said that it has a “non-discrimination policy in its hiring practices,” and that “Dr. Burnham offered information about his sexual orientation. However, that information was inconsequential in the hiring decision.”
The statement continues, “Dr. Burnham signed a one-year contract. The decision not to renew his contract was made in accordance to the Armenian law and considering several factors, including the needs of the program and student feedback. Obviously, personnel matters are confidential and to protect the rights of the employee and the employer cannot be shared with third parties. But we assure you that Dr. Burnham’s sexual orientation had no effect on the decision not to renew his contract.”
Burnham, who is currently suing the university over an intellectual property issue, says that he feels exhausted, but “duty-bound,” to his students at AUA who respect him and his work. He’s going to finish grading papers until the end of the semester. He says he’s glad that this chapter of his life is almost over.
As he packs his bags to leave Armenia next month, Martirosyan is more determined than ever to stay in her country and continue fighting for LGBTQ rights there.
Editor’s note: Lilit Martirosyan is no relation to Lucy Martirosyan, who authored this story. This story has been updated to further clarify what harassment Yeva Margaryan witnessed.
Lucia Lucas sweeps across a noisy diner in Tulsa, Oklahoma, at 9 a.m. on a Saturday wearing a calf-length, black brocade frock coat and a bright, lipsticked smile.
Most opera singers in her position would be resting up the morning after a big debut. But not Lucas.
“Last night was super weird,” she said, tucking into a plate of chicken fried steak and eggs. “There were so many things going on all at once.”
When Lucia Lucas stepped into the role of Don Giovanni, she became the first transgender person to sing a lead part in a standard operatic work in the US.
Credit:
Emily Steward
The 38-year-old, Germany-based baritone just made her debut as Don Giovanni with the Tulsa Opera, becoming the first transgender person to sing a lead role in a standard operatic work in the US.
Related: A US transgender activist is stuck in Sweden. The UN wants to investigate.
The New York Times sent a reporter. The Metropolitan Opera sent a casting representative. Lucas had a documentary crew following her around. And her dad, whom she hadn’t seen for a decade, flew in specially for the occasion.
“There was a lot of pressure to sing well,” Lucas said.
Lucas says she’d been wrestling with questions about her gender identity since she was a kid growing up in Northern California.
“My mom caught me with makeup,” she said of her formative years. “My dad found my stash of girl’s clothes.”
It was a difficult time.
Related: 'Transgender women are women,' organizers say after controversy over women-only pond in London
She nearly came out at college. But her career was starting to blossom, and she fell in love with a fellow opera singer — a woman. They got married (and are still together today). So, Lucas put the decision off.
Transgender opera singer Lucia Lucas moved to Germany in 2009. Her wife followed two years later. Lucas says they headed for Europe because there was more opportunity there.
Credit:
Josh New
“I guess I just sort of thought maybe I can have this normal life,” Lucas said.
Lucas moved to Germany in 2009. Her wife followed two years later. Lucas says they headed for Europe because there was more opportunity there.
“It's really difficult to make a career in opera in the US,” she said. “But in Germany, there’s 80-plus full-time theaters.”
Lucas continued to present as a man publicly. But she says she kept a drawerful of “inside clothes” at home, and she and her wife sometimes talked about her gender identity.
She was close to five years into a steady, salaried job as a singer with the highly regarded Badisches Staatstheater Karlsruhe when she finally decided she had to come out.
“There's so many people that would love to be a working artist where they make at least enough money to live and continue doing their art full time. But it wasn't fulfilling for me.”
Lucia Lucas
“There's so many people that would love to be a working artist where they make at least enough money to live and continue doing their art full time,” Lucas said of her decision to come out. “But it wasn't fulfilling for me.”
Lucas chose the Staatstheater’s splashy 2014 opera ball for the occasion. She made quite an entrance.
“We were startled,” said Jan Linders, the company’s deputy general artistic director. “She came fully dressed as a woman, and made it clear that she wanted to be addressed as Lucia from that day on.”
Linders says after getting over the initial shock, the company grappled with what to do about their first female baritone.
“There were many questions arising,” Linders said. “Where should be her dressing room? Should it be in the ladies or the gentlemen floor? How should she be addressed in program books? How could we convey this private change to directors that would cast her?”
Lucas says the opera company ultimately decided not to renew her contract. (The company isn’t commenting on that.) So, she threw herself into finding other work. She landed opera gigs with companies across Europe, performed in clubs and bars, and settled on pursuing a freelance career.
Opera has a long history of gender play. Female singers have been masquerading as young men and boys in so-called “trouser roles” or “pants roles” for hundreds of years, like Cherubino in Mozart’s “The Marriage of Figaro” and Octavian in Strauss’ “Der Rosenkavalier.”
But professional opportunities for transgender performers have been slow to come about. There are only very few singers currently getting mainstage work at opera houses around the world. The most prominent example, other than Lucas, is the Norwegian mezzo-soprano, Adrian Angelico, who identifies as male.
Lucas says the compliments she often gets at auditions don’t necessarily translate into contracts. So, she often dons fake facial hair at auditions to prove she can play male characters onstage.
“A lot of people are really confused because they have ‘Ms. Lucia Lucas’ on their paperwork as a baritone. But I'm presenting with a beard in masculine attire.”
Lucia Lucas
“A lot of people are really confused because they have ‘Ms. Lucia Lucas’ on their paperwork as a baritone,” she said. “But I'm presenting with a beard in masculine attire.”
Lucia Lucas, a transgender opera singer, often performs alpha male roles. “A lot of people are really confused because they have ‘Ms. Lucia Lucas’ on their paperwork as a baritone,” she said. “But I'm presenting with a beard in masculine attire.”
Credit:
Johannes Kaplan
Taking female hormones doesn’t raise your voice. And Lucas made a conscious decision not to retrain hers to sing higher parts.
“I don’t know how long I would have to take off from my day job, which is singing baritone,” she said. “And I have work through 2022.”
She’s also suspicious of the reasons companies give — if they give any — for failing to follow through on auditions she’s been promised, or dropping her from their roster.
“Nobody is fired for being trans,” Lucas said. “They’re fired for being 90 seconds late, or not complying with the dress code regulations.”
While trans opera singers are only just starting to make headway in an industry steeped in tradition and not known for its forward-thinking ways, opera administrators are beginning to show interest in the possibilities of casting them.
“The potential doors that this is now opening for trans singers is a very exciting step forward,” said Matthew Shilvock, the director general of the San Francisco Opera. He says trans singers have not yet come forward to audition for roles at his organization, one of the largest in the US. “I don’t see it any different from us looking at any other singer. If the voice is right for the role and right for the house, I would gladly hire that person.”
Tobias Picker, the artistic director at Tulsa Opera — and a composer — says he cast Lucas as Don Giovanni because he simply fell in love with her voice.
“Lucia has her own sound,” said Picker, who is currently writing an opera based on David Ebershoff’s 2000 novel about a transgender painter, “The Danish Girl,” with Lucas in the starring role. “It sparkles. It has flecks of light like gold.”
Lucia Lucas stars as Wotan in "Die Walküre" with Theater Magdeburg.
Credit:
Andreas Lander
Though she says the visibility she’s been getting lately has been helpful for her career, Lucas hopes the hoopla around transgender opera singers will eventually go away.
She wants to continue to play baritone roles like Wotan and Don Giovanni, without anyone making a big deal of the fact that she’s a woman.
“I had a theater director in Germany say, ‘Oh my gosh, this trans thing, it’s hot right now,’” she said. “I don't want that. I want it to be not a thing.”
