The Utopia That Will Be

Emma Watson's incredible opening speech for the He For She campaign broke the ice and started a dialogue about feminism.

The twelve minute long speech broke the silence about what it is to be a feminist, and how important it is that we work together as a whole to make the world a better place.

I am only 34 years old, but twenty-three years ago, I went with the girls in my class to see the school nurse for a talk about our procreational organs and the biology of womanhood. We listened to the nurse talk about our periods and the monthly cycle, and how to avoid getting pregnant. 

The second part, how to avoid getting pregnant is not the lecture the boys heard. They were not told about periods or how the female body functions. And I too never heard the lecture they were given about how puberty affects them.

This was the first sign of the segregation of the sexes. Girls learned about their part in the procreational cycle and boys about their part. 

Then came the time when I experienced sexism first hand for the very first time. As a little girl, I understood the world didn't view me in the same light as the boys in my class. The sex education class was not even the first hint. But up until that point, I had been sheltered by doting parents who saw only the individual in their little girl.

I was 12 years old and the new school year was about to start. That year we got a new PE teacher. Up until then, I'd had the same PE teachers since first grade, a married couple who taught together and kept it fun and interesting.

In the first PE class of the new semester, the class was an assembly of curious pre-teens. The new teacher was a man probably in his mid to late twenties, perhaps early thirties. He was someone who was only interested in sports involving balls, that is, handball, football and basketball. I can't remember the very first time I realized he viewed the boys as superior sportsmen, but it happened early enough in the semester. 

Every single time football, handball or basketball was played in class, he split the class in two, boys on one side of the room and girls on the other. He told the girls to play ball and that he would check upon us every now and then. For most of the class, he focused his attention on the boys. He was quite explicit, and even said so once, that girls were inferior sportsmen than boys. 

I understood this was not right. It was misogyny, a word I didn't know at the time. But the concept was no longer foreign to me. 

For the duration of the school year, the girls were excluded from playing sports with the boys, apart from the rare occasion when we played sports that did not require a ball to kick or throw.

Seeing that I grew up in a town where football, otherwise known as soccer, was the number one sport for both girls and boys, this was an odd arrangement. Our previous PE teachers had not divided us in teams based on our gender, but rather by number. 

In the following school year, a new PE teacher took his place and once again, we were divided into teams by number.

This first encounter with gender discrimination may seem harmless enough, and I may come across as petulant for recalling it still, but it is nonetheless no more acceptable than any other form of discrimination. 

Yes, we were not force-fed while imprisoned as our foresisters were in their battle for women's right to vote. But we did not deserve to be treated this way. We were young girls, only just beginning our journey to womanhood, and yet already battered by sexism.

Generations of women fought in body and mind to achieve equal rights for themselves and future generations of women. For their mothers, sisters, girlfriends and daughters, they fought and they achieved great many things. For some of these women, that meant a great personal sacrifice; exclusion, imprisonment, violence and hatred toward them was the day to day life.

Thanks to them, I started my life with a blank page.   

Generations of women throughout the ages were not so fortunate. The story of their lives was written for them, their life a script for which they claimed no authorship. Women were expected to read their lines like the good little girls they were, and for all of their existence be the dutiful daughters, wives and mothers.

The summary of their life was written by the men in their lives. A woman wed to a good man was perhaps protected from the violence she otherwise could be exposed to, and she may have been happy.
After all, men are not evil as a gender (and neither are women). Many husbands, and I'd like to believe that most did, loved their wives and daughters in all sincerity, and wanted nothing but the best for them.

The curse of the vast inequality of previous ages is simply that a woman was not believed to be capable of knowing what was best for her, or her children. She was as much a child as her own children.

Therefore, the real curse of men and women is the society that breeds a hierarchy of the sexes, the traditions and the beliefs that fuel society's standards, that are the devil. The rivalry of the sexes, the gender-biasism of stereotyping (and therefore condemning) each other into roles we are taught to believe are normal, is the great divider.

It is truly my belief that neither men or women can claim to be better than the other on the mere basis of their sex.  

To me, sex is the biological term for the body we are born with, and yes, as such men and women are different in various ways.

Gender on the other hand to me implies a notion, an idea of the sexes, of what they represent and of their supposed qualities. It's a neutral word with potentially explosive effects. 

To evaporate the explosive side of an otherwise perfectly neutral term, we need to investigate our prejudices, that is, the futile stereotyping of one another, and begin to see ourselves as people, as individuals of the human race. As such, we are allies. 

Our goal should be to build a society where we encourage individualism, where the belief in the good that is within us overpowers the poison of evil deeds in the name of gender. To be good, fair and kind should be the fuel that powers society.

My feminist ideal is simply the reinvigoration of the individual, and of liberating ourselves from the confinement of gender-based stereotyping.  

To give birth to such a society will require efforts to silence the prejudice that thrives in all societies (or so it seems), and to teach new generations - as well as firmly reiterate to generations already exposed to it - to always see the person before the gender.

It may seem futile to hold onto this utopian dream where humans exist without prejudice, but it seems to me that in order to see any progress at all, two steps are needed instead of just the one. 

As Emma Watson so beautifully reminded us, feminism is not the foe of men. The foe of men and women is inequality because whether we like to admit it or not, both women and men suffer for it while we let it exist. 

Feminism is but a word, a powerful word for a belief system that seeks to balance the inequality of this world. It is a word with historical reference to a movement that has truly changed the world for the better. Last but not least, it is an academic word for an ideology, an umbrella term for many different branches of thought.

Feminism explores the roles of genders in our society, and seeks now as always to even out the inequality. As such, the quest for individuals to be authentic in their own unique way, and to be the only writers to the story of their life, is fueled by feminist beliefs. 

It may seem futile to sign the pledge and declare your support for women's rights. But it isn't if all who sign act accordingly. If all of us, men and women, actively rebel against sexism either way it goes, we are making a worthwhile effort. 

Emma Watson gave us all a reason to join the movement of change in her launching speech for the He for She campaign. She asked herself who was she to launch such a big campaign. How could a 24 years old actress be the one to start such an important campaign. Well, if not her, then who, and if not at the age of 24, then when. 

And the same goes for all us, regardless of our age and sex. It's never too late to make a difference.

Next time I encounter sexism and hesitate before protesting, I shall ask myself that very same question, "if not me, who and if not now, when".

The Heart Has a Way

I once wrote that it was not my destiny to fall in love, to find a soulmate to share the ups and downs of life with. I was only 22 and only just starting out my life as a young adult. Life was a black hole of opportunities, and yet in my naivety, I had written off companionship.

The reason was simple. A broken heart, an illusion of the one and only, and youth's impatience for all of life's answers to reveal themselves to me, not just the moments along the way. 

The paragraphs of my writing at the time paint a picture of a vivacious but shy, hopeful but sad, happy but confused and yet already brave enough to take a risk and make a dream come true.

A few pages of dwelling in the past, of looking back in time and meeting me, a young and insecure me with a beautiful independent spirit. It's funny to look straight into the raw centre of the self and discover how early I found my two passions, traveling and writing. 

It seems it was always meant to be. Those two passions gave life a meaning before I understood how they've shaped my every step in life.

In writing, it's not just the act of writing. It's the act of reading, of bathing in words that are attached to a white slender sheet or a soft beige page on which words, sentences and paragraphs decipher the mysteries of this world.

A single word moves the soul across the horizon and all the way to the sun. Even though this universe is but a reflection of the past, a glimpse into a past, life happens in the moment. This life is reflected on the pages of great literature, and moves the soul. It brings joy, sadness and amusement - a roller coaster of emotions as the eyes scan the pages to find the answer to the mystery, finiteness to the story.

Traveling on the other hand is a curious journey with no predefined end. And one ending often leads to another beginning. It's the journey of continuity, one that answers the questions I didn't think I wanted an answer to.

It's a mirror for the soul. On the road that is travelled the light of knowledge glows brighter than ever, and the senses are wide awake. Each day is a new adventure, a new dimension, a new look on life and this incredible planet of ours, and the extraordinary people on it.

Both passions are still as strong as they were twelve years ago. The urge to explore and the urge to express is bursting within, like a bubble about to burst from excitement. 

Much has changed since I took my first steps into adulthood. I no longer live in Paris even though my love for Paris is as strong as ever. I have seen more of the world and learnt to land on my feet no matter what with relative ease. I have travelled down the road of literary academia, and fallen deeper in love with words and their infinity. 

The one thing I learnt along the way is that life has a way. The map is not mapped out by fate or a plan that is decided for us. It's the decisions that we make along the way, followed by the one after that, and so on. 

The only compass is the heart, and thankfully, I listened to mine and found myself on a path that is entirely mine. I share it with the love of my life, who celebrates his 34th birthday for another  half hour or so, and encourages me to pursue the passions that still give my life a greater meaning - as I encourage him. 

At 22, I didn't know true companionship, the kind where mutual respect and deeply rooted affection for one another - one that is born out of love and continues to thrive in love - and this as it turned out to be,   is the surprise I treasure the most.

Life is indeed a beautiful journey of unpredictability with no fated end. 

The Erupting Bang of the Bunga

As the world knows by now, the awesome forces of nature are at work in the remote highlands of Iceland. This is an extraordinary event, something so unspeakably beautiful that finding a word powerful enough to describe its magnitude is nigh-impossible. 

Many want to travel to the site of this great event, and there are those who have tried. It's understandable but it's unacceptable, and high fines are the price to pay. The site is only for scientists and journalists whose job it is to research and report on the ongoing activity.

Sightseeing tours to the eruption by air - in a safe distance - is probably the closest look the general public can expect to get of this dramatic display of nature. 

And how wondrous that would be!

But with journalists on site we, the public, catch a distant glimpse of this amazing perfection of nature. Images and video clips of the eruption  bring awe to our bodies and soul, leaving a permanent impression of the grandeur of this world of ours. 

This footage by Jón Gústafsson and this footage from the Icelandic Broadcasting Company is truly magnificent.

How insignificant we are in the presence of such greatness! 

How small and unimportant in comparison to this true wonder of nature!

My Best Friend

This evening, I took a nap.

It's been one of these days, after two near-sleepless nights, that the moment I lay my head on the pillow, I felt at home. I slept for roughly three hours. 

But the best part was waking up with my Emma, the most caring and adoring dog. After her walk and play time with local dogs, she ran straight to my bed post before running back to the kitchen for dinner. 

She then came straight back to bed and rested next to me while I slept. When I finally returned to consciousness, she rejoiced with such warmth and kindness that only someone so pure-hearted could give. To give back I took her for an evening walk in the drizzle, something she so enjoys.

A dog's love is pure and not held back by boundaries. When a dog wants something, you know. When a dog needs something, you know. But what a dog deserves the most is love and affection, to have that love reciprocated.  

The one thing to remember is that for Emma I am her whole life, my hubby, my dad, all the people that love her. She too has dog friends that she meets on regular basis, and her best friends lives on the top floor of our apartment building. Dogs are capable of great tenderness.

Having an animal, in my case my Emma, is truly the most rewarding experience of my life.

It not only brings me closer to my community but to nature, to the animal world that is so distant to human territories. I am a better person for knowing Emma.

Emma in her usual resting place. Photo by JB.

Emma and her dear friend Freyja. Photo by JB.

A Superhero dream...

The legend of the superhero.

Superheroes all have superpowers, such as, serious body muscle with serious punching power, and super-fast web-spinning power. Sometimes the mountain mass of muscle is used in the name of patriotism that excuses mass killing, and sometimes superheroes become an anti-propaganda for an era, such as the Cold War years in Watchmen. 

But there is one superhero power that is yet to put on pedestal by creators of comics, is the power to do good and the be ultimate role model for a good human being.
Until then, we can rest calmly in the knowledge that doing good is not yet a heroic effort. The day doing good becomes a superhero power, is the day we're in real trouble.

But whatever agenda there is for the superheroes of the world, there is really only one super-cool power that I want: the power to fly unconditionally to all parts of this lovely planet of ours… not to mention outer space.

So, if I had the awesome super-power to fly, I would travel all the time.

I would take my partner out for dinner in Paris after work…

I would go to Lake Como all the time, and some nights and days, I'd spend the night at my favorite hotel, Villa Belvedere in Argegno with a rental boat parked off the little dock way…

I would go buy my fine Fine Cafe from Caffe Milani in Como…

I would do city breaks, hikes, adventure tours, cycling tours and all available and not-yet-available tours like there was no tomorrow…

I would go to family braais in South Africa all the time…

I would go for a night out in Ios, Greece (yes, I'd make sure not to fly until I'd had proper rest)…

I would visit friends all over the place...

I would call my mate Spiderman to spin me a hammock at the top of the Amazon rainforest…

And yes, I'd make sure to wear sunscreen!

But since flying is not possible, I guess I'll have to make do with dreaming. 
Who knows, maybe when I close my eyes tonight, I'll be flying through the jungles of Vietnam and swimming in waters so clear that I can see my own reflection in it…

Instrument of Memories

Youth is real. 

Youth is a fairy tale.

Youth is the freshman year of adulthood.

Our society idolizes youth. 

We block out the bad and the uncomfortable memories, memories that bring back a memory of a broken heart, the vulnerable moments we wanted to forget and never recall again.

But as the years pass, these are the memories we no longer fear. We are not embarrassed by painful rejections nor do we blame ourselves for the things over which we had no control. We are not different people, we're just more comfortable in our skin and perhaps enriched with cool confidence.

But youth is and always will be a pink cloud floating in and out of our existence. Sometimes we linger for too long in its midst, idealizing the moments when we felt on top of the world. This journey to the past is usually followed by nostalgic melancholy of "where has time gone".

The few who had the foresight of keeping a diary or a journal of our years of youthful endeavors are in luck. They can ride the roller coaster ride of their youth and recall memories otherwise forgotten. The rest of us dwell on the big moments, grand emotions and the heartache. It is an unfortunate truth that without written recollection or memories documented in photographs, the past really is the past, a forgotten past.

But the brain has a way of recalling forgotten memories from the depths of a long-forgotten storage space where old data is kept. With our senses alone, we recall faces and places and hey even daisies.

For me, my sense of smell often triggers a flash from my traveling past to countries and cities. The rich scent of sweet but piquant spices lures me back to the Grand Bazaar of Damascus where I walked alone at the age of 21, tasting tea in every shop I entered, and feeling happy and curious in the company of kind and the most jovial people I've ever met from whom I learnt hospitality. 

From the song of crickets, I am returned to my 120 nights of sleeping in the open air in the Wadi Rum desert, camping off the red and dusty East African rural roads, and quiet sleeps in the thick bushland of conservation parks. In recent years, their song brings me back to the beautiful outskirts of Durban, the most colorful city in the world. 

But it's the soundtrack of my life that bring me back to my fun pub days. Certain rock anthems remind me of the actual Fun Pub on the Greek Cyclades island of Ios, while World, Hold On and Jack Johnson 's Better Together reminds me of sweet moments with dear friends on that very same island. 

David Gray's This Year's Love and The Other Side take me straight back to London in the early to mid 2000s. 

Ralando o Tchan from the É o Tchan do Brasil album reminds me always of my magical year in Brazil as an exchange student, where I made beautiful memories in the dry rural regions of my country state Goiás on a fazenda (farmhouse), on a bus full of exchange students driving down the northeastern coast of the country and my brazilian family who gave me so much.

All these songs bring back a rush of feelings, intense and gentle, exciting and melancholy, and remind me of the wild ride of freedom I so enjoyed as a curious traveler. Life was a real adventure.

Even films are able to bring back a blast from the past; that, or a reminder of swift changes in the passing of time. Having said so much about youth, I just realized I am now two years older than Bridget Jones in the first movie. A bad TV night brought me to Bridget Jones's Diary and yes, I am two years older.

Not that it bothers me. The thirties (or any other time in life) are not a time when all women turn into desperate spinsters in need of fertilizing eggs and should all of a sudden be embarrassed for being single. 

Time is after all is just a notion, a way to measure the passing of time and give place to host all the fabulous adventures we have in life. All of life is after all perception alone.

During one of our philosophical talks, my partner and I came to the conclusion that our whole existence as human beings originates within the confinements of our brain. Our feelings, thoughts, ideas, perception, our whole spiritual and bodily existence exists within the realms of one organ, our brain. It is literally our whole world.

That leads me to the conclusion that youth and aging are truly conceptual, a notion of the theatre that is life.

The instruments that tricker memories from hibernation are a time machine, a way to explore life through the wide lenses of frameless shades that change colour depending entirely on perception and mood.

Life would be so dull without all these accessories of life. And I love life, my life just the way it is, the way it was, and the enigmatic and glorious adventures of what will be.

The Downpour

One of my routine obligations is to take my dog Emma out for a walk. 

On a beautiful day, a walk with Emma is simply wonderful. When the breeze is light as a leaf and the sun shines brightly, I always make sure to bring Emma to the beach for a swim to cool her down. She loves swimming and on the best of summer days, I dive in with her.

But the glorious days when together we've swam in an inviting Atlantic Ocean are so few that I can count the times in all of Emma's two years on one hand.  

Thus, when I think of the Icelandic summer, I envision a writer in rags scribbling over a faint candlelight. In other words, it is about as unpredictable and unlikely as prosperous income for that impoverished writer in rags. 

From start, the prospect is not good. The unpredictable unpredictability of summer is the underlying threat that lingers in the air all summer long.

For a few years, the unpredictability was a blessing in disguise. Days and days of sunshine and double-digit temperatures brought unexpected joy and bliss to the lives of the nation that otherwise lives in a permanent state of winter.

But this was before Emma came into our lives. Her first summer, the summer of 2012, was lovely and her first walks were out in the sun. Therefore, I looked forward to the summer of 2013. I was tired of the long and cold winter days. Yes, I still enjoyed watching her discover the snow and rolling in it with such passion that child's play pales in comparison.

But it was time for summer.

After the winter came spring, cool and wet as tradition calls for, but within the hopeful local awoke the idea of the idyllic summer, a fragile bubble waiting to burst and disperse all pending hopes of bliss. As unlikely as it is for the Icelandic summer to become the Greek summer of my dreams, I always expect bliss but instead catch a blizzard. 

And last summer, all hope faded away in a never-ending downpour. Downpour after downpour, hope was crushed until its remaining ashes simply drifted in the direction of the more predictable mainland of Europe.

After a disappointing downpour of a summer and one hell of a stormy winter, I anxiously anticipated a surprise of a summer in 2014, a blast from the past with the sun high up in the sky and a mere breeze to move the air every now and then.

The summer season began with prosperity. May arrived in unseasonably festive spirits lifting hopes and raising expectations for the summer months to come. 

My daily cycle to and from work was an awakening I simply couldn't go without. It was temptation at its best. Even though some days rain fell and strong breeze bombarded off the coast, most days gave reason to hope for the best. 

But then came June, the month with the beautiful jovial name, and with it expectations of even more  heartfelt joy.

But no, once again came the season of pounding downfall, the kind that pours its sorrows onto the lands below with such fierce that its inhabitants feel as if they are drowning in unknown sorrows.

But sorrow rarely travels alone. Its trusted companion, rage, raged in from the raging Atlantic - a sea perhaps enraged by its role as mankind's personal bin - and attacked with fierce blows that cooled the air with vicious windfall.

And thus has been the tale of summer so far. Wind and rain, rain and wind, barely giving the sun space enough to come out for an afternoon, let alone a whole day.

The summer of 2014 so far. Photo by JB

Yesterday afternoon was like so many afternoons with my Emma in the local dog park. She was in her element playing with her dear four-legged friends while I stood in my raincoat - a raincoat I might add offers a fierce opposition in the worst of downpours - simply waiting for her to indicate to me that she too had enough of the very wet and cold rainfall that seemed to go on forever.

Therefore, when the play date came to an end, we bowed our heads and took a hike to our shelter of a home. 

Walking in the rain. Photo by JB

Stairs drowned in rainwater. Photo by JB

Both Emma and I arrived home dripping as if we'd just walked out of a cold shower, me fully-dressed and Emma in her flawless-as-always birthday suit. It was far from the rural romantic return of the heroine and her dog to the lover's humble abodes. 

Au-naturel re-fill for Miss Emma. Photo by JB

A very wet dog. Photo by JB

Yes, the immediate response of the romantic hero to the heroine's dour return was to dry the thick fur of a patient young dog while the heroine took a hot shower to quench the cold from her bones. 

I am a fan of Jane Austen's pastoral (and feminist) romance, and in particular Persuasion in which rain plays a substantial part. 

But after all this rain and wind, not one but two summers in a row, romance is the last thing that comes to mind in such foul weather, weather that is not only unpredictable but unseasonably bad, even for Icelandic summer.

But wait, summer just got more unpredictable. In the distance, the resounding of an invisible drum in an imaginary parade draws attention away from the misery in the skies above. 

It is yet another unpredictable song of a summer that in truth has not yet arrived.