the Creating Safe Spaces Writing Project - ONLINE

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Safe Spaces Writing Project

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The “Creating Safe Spaces for Girls and Women” Writing Project

An Invitation for Women from all over the World


This is an open invitation for women from all over the world to take part in a unique project of “Creating Safe Spaces for Girls and Women.”

Most of us have experienced some kind of a sexual molestation/ assault/ abuse/ attack/ harassment at one point or another in our lives. It could have been a single incident or an ongoing molestation. It happened on the street, at the pool, at a relative’s house, or in our homes. It was a family member, a family friend, someone from school, or a stranger. There are so many stories, and many of us carry them within ourselves. Many of us share our stories so that we could prevent these assaults from happening to other girls and women. But still many of us remain silent.

Yes, there are probably many websites, books, lectures, workshops on this issue. But still, we need more. In order to create safe spaces for girls and women, we need to tell our personal stories over and over, in all available forms.

I am inviting you to share your own personal story in any way you wish – it could be sharing a specific incident, describing your feelings of helplessness, fear, pain or guilt, how you cope with it in the present, how has it affected your life, how to transfer this knowledge to young girls, or any other thoughts you wish to share with other girls and women around the world. It can be as short as one paragraph or as long as several pages. You can focus on only one aspect of sexual molestation, or on several. It can be written in any style you wish: facts, poem, creative writing. You can remain anonymous if you wish, or you can tell us about yourself as little or as much as you wish.

What will be the final product? I still don’t know exactly, it will depend on the contents of the stories received. At the moment, I see it as a collage of stories from all over the world, women sharing their experiences in order to create safe spaces for us. In what form it will be? My initial thought is to have it all on an internet platform that will be accessible to girls and women all over the world.

Deadline? There’s no deadline for submissions. Right now, I think this will be an ongoing, long-term project.

Where to send your story: khulud.kh@gmail.com

Please help spread the word and pass this on to as many women as possible. To receive the invitation in a PDF form, please email me at the address above.

© this is an independent project initiated by khulud kh, January 2012

we refuse to be victims

(c) photo by khulud kh, 2012

She was maybe 27 or 28 when it happened. Right in the middle of having sex. She was high on marihuana and wine and it was all blurred in her mind. She only remembers the last moments of it. N was on top of her, and she was crying, “rape me, rape me.” He stopped in the midst of action and stared at her in horror. “Asmahan! Asmahan! Wake up! It’s me.” She stared at him with eyes full of fear. She covered herself with the blanket, and wept silently, her body contracted into a ball.

That was when she connected the dots. Her inability to enjoy physical contact without being high or drunk. And even then!

She can’t remember exactly when it all started. She can only guess that it lasted maybe two maybe three years. Maybe more maybe less. Maybe from the age of 9 or 10 somewhere around there. Because when her grandfather died, she was 11 and it was going on for a while already. She doesn’t remember how it started, or even why.

He was older by two years. Two years is a lot at the age of 9 or 10 or even 11. To her, he seemed almost grown up. What she remembers is an amalgamation of hands forcing their way into places she knew were forbidden to him. Her hands resisting, failing. The weight of his body on top of hers. His breath – always garlic – when he forced his tongue inside her mouth. The bruises that stayed for days on those parts of body that resisted the most. The pain. The disgust.

She also remembers the day when she gathered some extraordinary courage – from where she doesn’t know – and stood up to him. “Enough! I am going outside to wait for my father, and if you touch me again, I will tell him.” He just laughed at her. But he never again touched her.

For years, she walked with this pain inside of her. She was sure that it was her own fault. That somehow it was her who was guilty of his acts. Then, slowly, the pain receded, was pushed into some forgotten corner. Psychologists call it repression.

Then, on that night, it all flushed her. All the memories of his hands tongue touch weight garlic breath. She didn’t tell N about it, but he somehow felt. He knew he couldn’t hold her to comfort her. So he gave her enough space – physical – to feel the pain all the way, with all its intensity.

Our mothers didn’t teach us. Anything that had to do with any touch between a girl and a boy or man and woman was taboo. We were never told that our bodies belong to us. That we have full rights over our bodies. That no man, woman, girl, boy can touch any part of our body without our full consent.

Yet, our mothers are not to blame. No. We can never judge our mothers for what they could or could not do. We live in a society with such twisted grasp over anything that has to do with bodies. They think that if we don’t talk about it, if they act as if it doesn’t exist, then it will never happen. Not in their family.

But the fact is – and I don’t need to quote from any research – that the more a community represses these things and sweeps them under the carpet, the more sexual assaults happen in those very communities. Within the family – usually by cousins and uncles. Less often by brothers.

Looking back at the terrifying ease with which he molested her, she knows – without the need to quote from any research – that it happens at least to 80% of the girls. In one way or another.

Today she also knows what she didn’t know then. Back then, she walked with the pain all alone. She was sure that this was something very private, happening only to her, because of her. Today, she knows her pain is just a drop in a big, collective vessel, containing the collective pain of more than 80% of the girls around the world.

What to do with this pain? She’s working on it. Not with any psychologist, no. Her partner doesn’t know. But he knows she has an issue with sex. She still can’t be with him in bed without being drunk. But she’s working on it.

But more important, we need to channel this pain into something positive. Talk to our girls about sexual assault. Teach them that their bodies are theirs and theirs alone. That nobody – not a man, not a woman, not a boy, not a girl – has the right to touch any part of their body without full consent. That they have full rights over their own bodies. Because we don’t need any more collective pain. Enough is enough. We refuse to be victims.

(c) khulud kh, 2012

writing

(c) photo by khulud kh

Writing – what does this word mean to me. The breath of life, not less than that. For two years now I’ve been living two parallel lives. One – in the “real” world, as real as it could get, though I can argue about the character and quality and very essence of real. The other life – that of my novel. When I sit down at my large writing table – with the notebooks, pencils, fountain pen, colorful markers, computer, thesaurus, a pack of cigarettes, a cup of coffee and of course the complete works of Emily Dickinson – I leave the “real” world and enter the world of the novel. Completely and wholly. I become unaware of even my physical body. I cross the line, step beyond, step inside.

I can spend four hours sitting at my writing desk. Usually into the night. I feel I am stealing time when everyone else sleeps. I feel productive. I write. When I get real lucky – I don’t write, but rather let the character come through and let her or him write her or his own story. One at a time. Usually it’s Majid that succeeds in surprising me. The poetry he writes is beautiful. I love it. I read his poems often. Yet I always know that the poetry is not mine. I can never claim authorship of it. My poetry never dances like his. Isn’t as colorful as his. Doesn't come close to intensity of emotions like his.

I often get possessed with fear. What if I run out of words ideas metaphors story-lines. What if I never finish this novel. What if it will resist. What if I do finish it and then that would be the end of it. Questions always questions. Doubts. What if I’m not a good enough writer what if I’m wasting time what if – stop it!

What is good about writing – the process itself. Writing itself is what gives me satisfaction. Forming one word – then putting another word after it. Seeing my thoughts become physical. Become visible.

The stupidity of it – after all, everything has already been said in so many words and so many ways and so many forms. So what’s so unique about my writing. Stop it!

What’s unique about my writing – is that this is my way of saying what has already been said in so many words so many ways so many forms. My own way in my own words in my own form with my own distinguished style.

Nothing unique about what I just wrote here – but nevertheless, it’s mine and it’s what I think and how I feel and so why not. Not every piece of writing has to be so smart to knock the socks out of its readers’ feet.

Because – really, to be honest in the deepest way – I can’t imagine my life without writing. It did become the air I breath. Without writing – I will lose my sense of myself. I will lose a large part of my very being.

Writing is the one single thing that I can never give up on. It is the one single thing I will always do in my life – no matter what where how.

Enough now and go back to the novel.

(c) all rights reserved to khulud kh (2012)

Friday night home alone

So I worked a full day yesterday – half a working day at one job, the other half working day at my other job. In between – take the dogs out go swimming help my daughter prepare for her two day workshop in Jerusalem answer emails in three different email accounts go out and buy milk read Rela’s book don’t forget to eat don’t forget to eat at ten at night start cleaning house am I crazy yes do the dishes fold the laundry sweep the floors take dogs out again before they scratch part of the door off! Take a shower continue to sweep the floors organize desktop answer more emails work on report call mother get the sock from the dog before he tears it wash the floors make sure dogs are out of the way don’t want paw-prints on the floor. Talk to daughter kiss her goodnight. Take a shower and go to sleep.

This morning – wake up at six in the morning make coffee for my father take him home take his car come back and take my daughter to the meeting point to Jerusalem go back home take dogs out go to my parents’ house for the whole day. Don’t forget to eat don’t forget to eat. At six in the evening come back home, turn on water heater take dogs out smoke a cigarette drink a cup of coffee change the sheets sweep the bedroom floor. Take a shower. Wait. Eight o’clock. No phone call no message nothing. Eight fifteen. My phone vibrates and I read the message: “I fell asleep I’m sorry I didn’t mean this to happen.”

Take the bottle of wine off the shelf and start drinking. Work on my novel.

(c) all rights reserved to khulud kh (2012)

body image (or: my magic training pants)

So I was again in this same group which made me want to scream last time. But this time we had a really good session. We discussed body image – what we like about our appearance, how important is it to us, the stereotype that all feminist women neglect their appearance, what is beauty and by whom is it defined, the perfect body and by whom is it defined, culture and society in relation to body image, and what not.
Anyway, as we were concluding the session, moving from our own private bodies to the public sphere of society and how it perceives beauty, I thought of one microcosmic example for how much society puts emphasis on external appearances.

They’re doing some construction work in my neighborhood, so it is literally teeming with young men bursting with hormones. I take the dogs out in the morning in my training suit and in my black jacket. I walk past the working men. I am air. Invisible.

Later on, I leave the house for the office – dressed in skinny jeans and boots. The same black jacket. My face and hair are exactly the same as in the morning, as I don’t use any makeup. So – practically the only difference is the clothes on the lower part of my body: skinny jeans and boots instead of baggy training pants and crocs. All men stop working. All heads turned in my direction, their eyes following me down the street. I am amazed how a pair of skinny jeans and boots can turn me from completely invisible to the center of their attention – for a few moments, at least.

The next morning, I put on my training suit, black jacket and crocs – and head out with the dogs again. I walk past the working men. And I am invisible again. I smile to myself. My baggy training pants are magical, having the superpower of making me invisible – well, in certain situations at least and for certain individuals. But. Nevertheless.

(c) by khulud kh. all rights reserved (2012)

Discovering Haifa (or: my adventure on bus number 5)

(c) photos by khulud kh, all rights reserved (2011)

I think this was the first time in my life that I take bus number 5 in Haifa. Starting point: Carmel Center (after swimming). Destination point: Downtown (office). But what I didn’t know was what a trip this bus had in for me. No mercy here. So we begin our journey – I sit comfortably at the back of the bus. First stop: Carmel Center. A number of people get on the bus, mainly older people with shopping bags. The doors close and we begin to descend – a winding road connecting between the mountain and the sea, not accidentally called Derech Hayam in Hebrew – the Sea Road. In Haifa, the higher up the mountain you go, the higher the socio-economic status of the residents. A historically known fact. Although today it doesn’t quite apply in such a general way. But still, this is reflected in the environment – the streets are much wider, cleaner. The houses – well, standing more erectly. Parks and playgrounds – perfectly maintained. But let’s get back to the bus.

So we go down the mountain, and at one point we reach a bus station with some seven or eight soldier-boys standing around it. The bus stopped for about a minute and a half – which seemed just too long, as I was sitting at the window with the boy-soldiers right in front of me, only glass separating between me and their machine guns. One was smoking, letting out failed rings of smoke out of his mouth. The other one stood talking to him, and at one point sent his hand down his pants to adjust his penis inside them – I guess – and then to scratch around it. Only two had weapons. But these were not the usual guns we see in the public spaces all the time. These were much heavier, thicker. I don’t know the names of machine guns, but the name is not relevant here. What is relevant that they scared me and I was suddenly very happy that none of these boy-soldiers with these weapons got on the bus. Only hours later, when I told someone at work about this incident and asked if there was a military base there, I was told that this is a medical military base. What do they need such heavy weapons for in a medical military base – I couldn’t understand. A soldier-girl came and sat next to me – no weapon. I scooted over, practically gluing my upper body to the steel of the bus. As far away from her as possible.

The bus continued, with three new passengers – the girl-soldier who sat next to me and two boy-soldiers who stood at the back door of the bus. We entered Kiryat Shprintsak – known to be a very socio-economically weakened neighborhood. The buildings – well, all dilapidated. While up on the top of the mountain every other building is being renovated, here it seems like no human hand has touched these buildings for decades. Some buildings actually have missing pieces – there are these metal on most of the buildings, I’ve never understood what their function is, but I think it has to do with wind. Anyway, some metal sheets are missing from some of the buildings. The paint – well, most have no discernible color. Everything seems crowded here. An older couple gets off the bus at one of the stations with a shopping cart. I see an old man walking by, his right hand holding a transistor radio to his ear, the antenna sticking out.

We continue. Now we cross a clear boundary, leaving Kiryat Shprintsak behind with its dilapidated, colorless houses, and entering Wadi El-Jmal. Ein Hayam in Hebrew. The Arabic name means the Valley of Camels, while the Hebrew means the Eye of the Sea. This is the place where my grandfather considered buying a house a lifetime ago, settling finally on Wadi E-Nisnas, as Wadi El-Jmal was very far (back then) to the center of the city. Here, at the first station, a young Arab woman gets on the bus with two small girls. Nobody gets off the bus. The architectural scenery is breathtaking. I concentrate on the old stone houses – the beauty of them. Greenery enveloping them in a wild manner. Other houses are newer, but built in a way that reminds the past.

And then we are out of all residential neighborhoods, on the main Sea road. We pass the Marine museum of Haifa – with two warships being exhibited in front of it, a necessary (un) reminder of wars. After that, the “business” sector of downtown – car agencies, falafel and shawarma places, different workshops of metalwork. All this, among some scattered unoccupied houses belonging to those who were forcefully expelled from their homes back in 1948. These houses are mostly in ruins – some have no windows, the open spaces closed off by blocks. Others were renovated.

I get off the bus one stop before Kiryat Ha-Memshala – the Government district, with its ugly glass buildings and lawyers’ offices. I have only one word to say about this district – ugly.

I cross Ha’atzmaut road and walk to Jaffa road, heading to my office for a day of work, never imagining that I could have such an enriching trip through my own city, traveling through all the complexities this city has to offer – architectural, social, economic, military, national. I went home, making a decision to take different buses and new walking routes whenever I have an opportunity. To discover Haifa and taste it all over again, every time from a new angle and through a new path.

Next destination – the Haifa stairs.

(c) all rights reserved to khulud kh (2011)

Madness - the Divinest Sense

(c) photo by khulud kh, all rights reserved


So there’s this writer, her name is Asmahan. She has these characters, who have taken off the page and become real. They go to the café with her and sit right next to her – too close at times, enveloping the space around her. They invade her private moments, even in her most sacred moments of solitude. Most often they don’t listen to her. They even have the audacity to argue with her. But what’s most outrageous is that they tempt her – until she can no longer resist and lets them occupy spaces of her brain – and of her reality. They gradually take over more and more, until she sees Shahd downstairs in the library, sitting there among a group of real-life women. The horror on Asmahan’s face! She looks exactly like Shahd – the hair, the eyes, the color of her skin. Even that mesmerizing movement of her eyelashes – like the flutter of a butterfly! Asmahan blinks once, twice. Moves her head to the left and then to the right to make sure she’s not imagining all of this. But it is her – Shahd from “life in fragments.” It can’t be any other woman. Not here, not like this. Fascinated, she listens to Shahd’s voice, and her words are the script she had written down for her the night before.

That same night, Asmahan steps into her own manuscript, and reality merges with imagination. They become inseparable even in her own mind.

Just the rumblings of a mind on the verge of madness… but then what is madness? Aren’t we all mad in our own ways? And isn’t madness a natural part of our lives? And who defines madness? The meaning is so slippery and elusive, that whenever I think of it, I always come up with Emily Dickinson’s poem “Much Madness is divinest Sense.” I find her words comforting at my most despairing moments, just when I am positive that I will soon cross that thin line separating rational thought from complete madness.

“Much Madness is divinest Sense –
To a discerning Eye –
Much Sense – the starkest Madness –
‘Tis the Majority
In this, as All, prevail –
Assent – and you are sane –
Demur – you’re straightway dangerous –
And handled with a Chain –“

Poem by Emily Dickinson.

(c) all rights reserved to khulud kh (2011)

"What is feminism?" (or - I just want to scream)

(c) photo by khulud kh - all rights reserved

Just wanted to scream.
Ok so I’m sitting in this group. We’re all sitting in a circle. We start like in a feminist Collective with a round of names. Then there’s time and space for thoughts we had since our last meeting. The group is containing. Pleasant atmosphere. Some of the women are my friends. Others are new to me. Then we work in small groups, answering the following questions: “When did I discover I was a feminist? What was my first feminist act?” So I share my thoughts. My first feminist act – I don’t remember. But I do remember my most significant feminist act, which continues to accompany me. That of bringing my voice into the open. The transition from the private to the public sphere in my writing. And with this transition, the contents of my writing also changed from the personal to the political. And this is feminism all about – at least to me.

Then we went back to the group, and we were asked to share personal stories. I shared mine. Another woman shared hers. Her first feminist act was as a young teenager, when she took part in organizing and holding a demonstration. She stressed the collective power, the power to change, and the action in the public sphere. We were both talking about the same thing. From the private to the public – these are our first and most significant feminist actions.

Then, several other women talked, and as I was listening, trying to understand them and contain their different views of feminism, a silent scream began to form inside of me. While thinking of my feminist act, my independence or the fact that I am a single provider for my household, or the fact that I don’t cook – all these didn’t even cross my mind. But this was the main thing these women talked about. They talked about the importance of being an economically independent woman, but at the same time expressed clear antagonism towards feminism. One of them said that she took care of an old lady who never married and never had children, and that this old lady was very sad because she felt she had missed on life. What does this have to do with feminism? The focus of their talk was relationships, with cooking sneaking in every now and then. Oh, and burning bras.

So this is what feminism means to them? I thought and wanted to let that scream loose. None of them talked about social struggles, structural oppression, the rule of hegemony, acting in the public sphere.

This was yesterday. 24 hours have passed, and I am left with some thoughts. Yes, I am an economically independent woman. Yes, I am the single provider for my household. No, I don’t have a husband or a partner who lives with me. No, I don’t know how to cook. Now the question is – is this because I’m a feminist? I want to say no! These choices have nothing to do with feminism. But that would be not looking the truth in the eye. Feminism for me is a wide worldview and a way of life. So I guess the choices – personal or not – I make in my life are always connected this way or that – to the fact that I am a feminist.

But what I want to say is that this is not the essence of feminism, and never has been. Many feminists love to cook, many feminists are married and have children, and many feminists wear bras (YES).

So, what did I want to say? Oh yes, I just wanted to let that scream out and make clear the fact that my feminism is about the political. It’s not about cooking, not about bras, not about living (or not) with a partner. It’s about my right to be present and act in the public sphere. Mainly, for me, at this stage – it’s about my voice! About my voice having the legitimacy to be heard in the public sphere. There you go – I let my silent scream out.

(c) all rights reserved to khulud kh (2011)

I REFUSE (or: on unpaid, indefinite leave from the conflict)

I was told the other day I’m using the strategy of “escapism,” as I claimed that I don’t have time to read the news! Now, that’s interesting. There are more racist laws being put on the Knesset table, the democratic space is shrinking right before our eyes, the next war is being planned out in the open, and what do I do? I write love poems! I don’t write any posts condemning what is happening, I’m not commenting on the Iranian “threat,” nada! I even stopped following the news. I have crawled into my seashell and decided that all that matters now is to write that perfect love poem. To find those elusive words that express that which words cannot express. Like being “intoxicated by the letters of – your name in my blood.” There you go! Words expressing that which cannot be expressed. Conflict? Nuclear weapons? Democracy under threat? Racist legislation? Now really – it’s the same old same old. And anyway – how much of this shit can one mind contain?! And didn’t I already say that I have taken unpaid, indefinite leave from the conflict? So for a while now – all I will be posting is love poems and fragments of my novel-in-progress. You don’t like that? That’s your problem, and to be honest, deal with it. And if you don’t deal with it, see who cares! Like seriously now – am I expected to put my dreams hopes goals loves on pause until all this shit ends? Am I supposed to be immersed in it and stink from it 24/7? Well – I REFUSE!!! I want to love I want to write I want to dream I want to love I want to be left alone I want to be me!

(c) all rights reserved for khulud kh (2011)

Oren Yakar אורן יקר

I googled you Oren, but you just don't exist in cyberspace.
Barak interviewed me for a documentary he's making on you. Originally, I was supposed to just read For You, Oren, but then we started talking and all the memories of you flushed me. Of course I needed this after almost 20 years.

I brought the diary with the drawings to the interview - just as an afterthought.
But really, I think I had the feeling that not many paintings or drawings have survived your destructive hand.

And since there is nothing out there in cyberspace about you, I thought to post these drawings here to share them with others - I didn't realize I have a treasure.

So I hope this will ease the pain, and help me heal the open wound...

(c) all rights reserved to khulud kh. (2011)

For you, Oren בשבילך - אורן יקר

(c) photo by khulud kh (2011)

Do you remember, Oren, how I used to hold your curly head and caress your shoulder as you bent low over the window to throw up?

Do you remember, Oren, when I used to lay on your bed – naked.
And you would sit on the floor with a piece of charcoal in your hand.
And you would draw me – naked.

Then, when you finished your masterpiece, we would both look at it for a while – before you shred it into pieces – beautiful art for the sake of art, to be discarded.

I wrote you poems, and you just laughed them away and graded them.

Then, one day, we stood at the top of the stairs, and you told me: “I will push you down these stairs.” And you almost did.
That day, you also told me, “If you leave me, I will kill myself.”

And then I left – all the way to the other side of the world.

And when I came back, I wanted to see your face, run my fingers through your curls, just this one more time, before I go on.

I dialed the number, etched into my bones.
Olivia answered.
I asked, “Can I speak to Oren?”
Silence on the other side. Then, a shocked voice dripping with agony, “Who is this?”
“It’s me,…”
“Oren is gone.”
I wanted to ask when will he be back, and could she please tell him that I called… but then… the agony in her voice enveloped me, and I understood. Oren is gone. Gone.

“If you leave me, I will kill myself.”

Oh, Oren… I am carrying these words inside me wherever I go, along with the memory of your face, the feel of your curls, and the sweetness of your smile…

(c) all rights reserved to khulud kh, 2011

mesmerized

When I saw you for the first time – down there in the library, I was mesmerized.
Mesmerized by your beauty, the softness of your movements, the way you held the pen between your fingers, and the way you leaned on your elbow. The whisper of your voice.
You made me break my silence with –
the flutter of your eyelashes, like a confused butterfly.

But I knew you are not for me – I was sure of this.
So I just smashed the feelings into the corner of my stomach.

And then… all of a sudden, you surprised me the other night… leaving a small opening for me…
Will I dare to…
Or was this opening just a teasing? Was it just a joke to torture me?

That night, I went to bed with your name softly making its way into my body. The rhythm of it.
And the last thought before giving way to the other world – was that of tasting your lips.

All this is brand new, brand fresh for me… don’t think I’m a master of it just because I dare come closer… my whole body is shaking from excitement, but also fear…

Will you come and sit here with me in this Diwan, let me hold you, let your hair loose and let me caress it… just softly walk my fingers up and down your shoulder… only this, and a soft kiss of your lips… nothing more. I promise.

And if you don’t want to – that is alright with me too.

(c) all rights reserved to khulud kh, 2011

Women in the public sphere and language

A few days ago, I was watching a program in Arabic on television. I can't remember the name of the program, but it was an interview with an economist. He was analyzing the economic situation of Israel in the context of the economic situation of the Palestinian community within Israel. I liked what he was saying, though the idea itself was not new. He was saying that the Israeli economy cannot thrive unless the economy of the Palestinian community inside Israel thrives also. This idea caught my attention, so I continued listening to him. Then he went on to talk about the OECD, providing data and making an impression that he knows what he's talking about. So far, so good. What he was saying made sense. A country cannot thrive economically if it leaves out a whole group of people from the process. But then, in one moment, or actually with a few words, he completely messed up. He said the words "business men" and "men of economy" [although in Arabic there is a word referring to economists, he chose to use the words "men of economy" instead].

At this choice of words this, I stopped listening to him. I was enraged. He was recycling the same oppressing discourse and practices. He was talking about the state not providing fertile ground for Palestinians inside Israel to thrive economically, while he himself was using a language which oppresses women.

What, can't we women be business women? Can't we women be economists? Again, in the public sphere, only the men count. This view, this ancient patriarchal discourse, this whole frame of thought has to be eradicated. I am sick of being marginalized and excluded from the public sphere! I want my equal space in it – it's my basic right. And, guess what? Just like this man was saying about the exclusion of Palestinians citizens of Israel from the country's economy, the same goes about the exclusion of women from any process – be it economic, social, cultural, or other.

No society can thrive if it excludes women from its public sphere. Women have much to contribute to their communities and societies in all spheres of life, and it is high time to acknowledge our contribution and its importance.

I shared this thought with a close friend of mine, and he said that in Arabic, when you say a plural verb or noun, it is generally used in its masculine form, while referring to both women and men (in contrast to English, where the plural form is gender-neutral). But this very fact is also significant. The very choice to use the masculine when referring to both genders is inherently stating that men are more important than women. Although his claim was baseless in this case, as I was talking about the word "men," which does not refer to both genders at all. Close attention needs to be paid to the way we use language and words, as language shapes and designs reality.
(c) all rights reserved to khulud kh

A "Flat Taste" - Consumerism Insanity

We have a new product on the shelves!!! Wooohooo!!! “Flat Pretzel Rings” by OSEM. Of course, I was tempted to buy a bag and try them. Taste-wise, I couldn’t detect any change… on the contrary, I like the good-old kind much better. So, yet another marketing trick to raise sales. That’s what I thought to begin with. No big deal, huh? Most companies do these tricks every now and then – selling the same product but changing the packaging, the color of the package, the size of it, the shape of the product. And all just to make us consumers even more confused, and to raise sales. Well, so far so good. After all, it’s a free economic market and there’s a lot of competition out there. Not a big deal. But! What I discovered is the insane price of these periodic innovations. Here’s what OSEM had to say as a reply to the higher price of their Flat Pretzels: “In order to bring consumers the novelty of Shtuchim (Flats in Hebrew), the company invested more than 30 Million Shekels (more than 8.5 Million US Dollars) for over two years in developing the product and in establishing a new production line.” WOW! More than 30 Million NIS!!! And for what? Manipulating consumers.

In light of the Tent Protests all over Israel, demanding social justice, and the fact that in today’s “free” economic market big companies are making their profits on the backs of consumers, I have something to say here. As a person. As a consumer. As a feminist. To all these companies that believe their way to economic profit is through manipulating us:


We don’t need the same product in a new shape. We don’t need new Pretzels in a Flats shape. Instead of investing the 30 Million NIS in a new production line, why don’t you try to win my heart through socially responsible actions? I promise to buy your products if you in turn invest the 30 Million NIS back into the community. So many social change projects are waiting for your involvement in the community. And you know what? Spend some money on advertising your contribution and involvement in the community. Why not? Write on your products that you are supporting this or that social project for the welfare of this or that marginalized or disadvantaged community. And see how your sales rise. You don’t need engineers for that. All you have to do is come down from your tower and taste the life on the ground. Become socially responsible – do something for society. After all, you have 30 Million NIS to spend. For me, your 30 Million just went down the drain, and I’m not buying any more Shtuchim!