A Busy Revolution or a Real One

On September 16, Jina Amini, a 22-year-old woman, was killed by the morality police in Tehran. Her death sparked nationwide protests that haven’t stopped since then. To speculate when and how this simmering discontent might lead to actual political change, many have attempted to define the scope of protests, to figure out what we are dealing with here: an uprising, a movement, or a revolution. In hyperemotional times like this, gathering one’s thoughts to come to a critical analysis isn’t exactly an easy task, especially if you’re not physically there in the protests and have to rely on social media to follow what is happening. There, I find myself constantly oscillating between the euphoria of high hope and the dread of hopelessness.

Do you remember the golden egg in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, which the Champions each retrieved from the dragons in the First Task, the one that held a clue for the Second Task? When opened, Harry’s egg is empty but emits an unbearable screeching sound with an incomprehensible message. The champion must decipher the sound’s meaning and, through that, find a way to complete the task described. The correct way to decipher the egg is to open it and listen to it underwater. Social media reminds me of that golden egg these days (wish I had a smarter analogy). In the absence of streets where our voices can come together, many of us have bundled there, where despite the promise, few people are coming together, and many are falling apart. There are accusations, guilt, shame, anger, disinformation, bullying, labeling, and all sorts of power play, muting the formation of conversations around our thoughts and ideas for the future and our values and principles for change. How can we use our tools differently? How do we find different ways to listen? The golden egg may give us a clue here and there, but the real work is done elsewhere.

A couple of years ago, a friend with a brilliant talent for community building added me to a WhatsApp group. There were a few other women artists I either didn’t know or had only heard their names. We were put together to discuss a particular issue that was bothering us all at the same time. One of the group members suggested that we perhaps introduce ourselves to get a better grasp of who we are talking to, not by copy-pasting our artist statements or education credentials, but by making what she called ‘podcasts’ where we would tell our life stories, answering the question of what has shaped us into who we are and brought us to where we are. While listening to these ‘podcasts’, we realized how much we have in common, despite our different geographies, backgrounds, and practices. That particular issue we had gathered around was nothing but a symptom of patriarchy. That symptom went away, but, of course, not the patriarchy, so the group remained with occasional pauses in activity. With the protests starting, we came back together, all frightened and anxious to figure out what was happening and how we could contribute. We shared our fears and frustrations, as well as what brought us joy: the numerous expressions of solidarity our feminist movement of ‘Jin, Jian, Azadi’ was receiving from women and queer voices in Afghanistan, Armenia, Rojava, Iraq, Chile, Palestine, Sudan, Egypt, Turkey, Pakistan, India, Ecuador, Lebanon, Indigenous peoples in Canada, African-Americans, and others. I’ve been left speechless at the power that lies in these messages, in this coming together, this moment of realization that none of us can be free if one of us is oppressed, an understanding that is at the core of the manifesto of ‘Jin, Jian, Azadi’.

Jin Jiyan Azadi (Woman, Life, Freedom) is a Kurdish phrase. It is rooted in the Kurdish Feminist Movement and is anti-capitalist, anti-patriarchal, anti-colonial, and anti-nationalist. It is as inclusive and pluralistic a manifesto as there can be. And that makes it terrifying and confusing for some. One of the worst betrayals of oppressive systems is destroying our sense of imagination and confining it to their limited worldview, where the word ‘woman’ is only synonymous with motherhood and with bodies that need to be controlled; where Jin Jiyan Azadi isn’t a valid manifesto because it sounds too romantic for the very patriarchal minds it wishes to change; where your idea of equality means that there should be the word ‘man’ next to ‘woman’; or it may seem the revolution is excluding men. So yes, we have the most progressive manifesto, but how to live up to it?

I want us to be able to talk to each other. To find spaces on the fringes of the demonstrations for coming together beyond social media, where it is actually possible to share and discuss ideas rather than bully, dictate, scold, and reprimand. To feel free to ask questions and be critical without being put on trial for treason in the ruthless courts of social media. To not enclose our agency only to pass around prescriptions others have written for us. I want us to free our imagination from seeking solidarity and action from those who have nothing to offer us but war and sanctions. I want us to reflect on our positions as people, especially if that is a position of the majority, one that has historically oppressed minorities on the grounds of their ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, and class. If you ask Kurds not to speak their language at the protest in the name of ‘unity’, you are part of the problem. If you ask a queer person not to bring their flag to the protest in the name of ‘unity’, then you are part of the problem. I could go on, but I think you understand what I’m getting at. Solidarities and connections can’t emerge between various migrant, diasporic, and transnational communities without acknowledging the exerted powers on our behalf.

I want us to grow and to give room to others so we can grow together until we are all tall enough to see the promising horizon that is Jin Jiyan Azadi.