Sororidad

Ir sola a una marcha es algo normal para mí. La gran mayoría de las veces acudo a las marchas feministas sin una amiga ni una agrupación que me acompañe. Sólo mi cámara. Los razonamientos y acciones de los que me podrían haber acompañado son de ellos — a veces es cuestión de no coincidir horarios. En todo caso, no se lo recrimino a nadie porque siempre, siempre me sentí acompañada.


Cuando volví de viaje en enero, entré a un estado de enojo casi inmediatamente por el machismo argentino que me estaba esperando hasta que fui al pañuelazo al Congreso. Me bajé del bondi y sentí felicidad, de estar donde tenía que estar y de seguridad total. Estaba en casa, gracias a la sororidad.


Going to marches alone is normal for me. Most times I go to feminist protests and marches and events with no friend or political party to accompany me. Just my camera. The reasons and actions of those who could have joined me are theirs alone — sometimes it's just that schedules don't combine. Either way, I have never admonished anyone for it because I have always, without fail, felt accompanied and comforted.


When I came back from Australia in January, I very quickly became angry with the Argentine machismo that was waiting for me at the airport until I went to the pañuelazo (a pro-choice rally held last month). I got off the bus and felt joy because I was where I had to be and I felt completely safe. I was home, thanks to the sisterhood.



La sororidad no es lo que vemos en las películas estadounidenses: es una palabra que estamos usando para describir la solidaridad entre mujeres, la hermandad y la alianza forjada por la opresión y el deseo de mejorar las cosas. Antes era una palabra académica, pero ahora es un término que aparece cada vez más para describir ese vínculo natural que se hace muy obvio en las marchas. Se siente.


En cada marcha, en cada -azo, tuve la suerte de hablar y caminar al lado de personas que conocí en el momento. Serán muchas veces encuentros fugaces pero son la conezión instantánea es fácil por la relajación liberadora que hay por estar entre hermanas en el medio de la ciudad de la furia. Esa ciudad frena por nosotras, por nuestra furia. Y por esa furia unificadora, hay amor entre luchadores por la igualdad.


Don't be fooled by the word "sororidad": it's not "sorority" like in US colleges, which aren't a thing here. "Sororidad" translates to "sisterhood". It's a word we're using to describe the solidarity between women, the alliance forged by oppression and the desire to make things better. The word has academic origins but its jumped from intellectual circles into the mainstream and is being used more and more to describe that natural bond that becomes obvious during feminist marches. You can feel it.


In every march, every protest, every -azo*, I've been able to fall in line with people I just met and talk to them. They may be spurious encounters but the instant connection is easy due to the liberating relaxation of being between sisters in the middle of a bustling, stressful city known as "the city of fury." On days like these, that city stands still for us, for our fury. And because of that unifying fury, there is love between those fighting for equality.


[Gallery]

Me encontré con una mujer que fotografié en el pañuelazo hace un mes, con el mismo mensaje escrito a mano en su espalda. Charlé con una nena y su madre, orgullosa. Los colores de la marcha me los pintaron Paloma y Agustina. Ellas fueron las que me preguntaron si estaba sola. Las fotos mías me las sacaron un grupo de chicas que me gritaban "Esa! Diosa!" y me decían cómo posar. Otra chica me ofreció una pistola de agua para tirarle a su amiga "para joder." Eso sin contar todas las palabras y gestos que intercambiamos, como chistes internos, a lo largo del encuentro, particularmente cuando les estoy sacando fotos. Cada grito de bruja que resuena a lo largo de la avenida me hace sonreír.


Por eso siempre me sorprende la sorpresa de los que no suelen ir — "Pasé un minuto y era re tranquila la marcha," "No había nada de quilombo," "Había un montón de chicos." Obvio que estamos tranquilas. Aún mientras "hacemos quilombo" (un tema para otro día), estamos tranquilas porque nos sentimos seguras. No tenemos por qué estar intranquilas en ese contexto. Y más vale que queremos llevar a nuestros hijos: son momentos históricos en donde peleamos por lo que creemos con gente fantástica que ni conocemos en una atmósfera de unidad. ¿Qué más querríamos enseñarles a las futuras generaciones?


I bumped into a woman I photographed at the pañuelazo a month ago, with the same handwritten message on her back. I talked to a young girl and her proud mother. The colours of the march were painted on my face by Paloma and Agustina. They were the ones who asked if I was alone. Photos of me were taken by a group of girls that yelled encouragements and pose ideas. Another teenager offered me a water gun to shoot at her friend for "shits and giggles." I'm not even counting all the exchanges of words and gestures like inside jokes throughout the march, especially when I'm taking pictures. Every witch-like whoop that reverberates down the avenue makes me smile.


That's why I'm always taken aback by the surprise of people that don't usually go to marches — "I stopped by for a minute and everything was pretty chill," "There wasn't any violence," "There were a lot of kids!" Of course we're pretty chill. Even when we're "making a fuss" (more on that another day), we're calm because we feel safe. We have no reason to be worried in that context. And of course we want to bring our children with us: they're historic moments fighting for what we believe in, surrounded by great people we don´t know personally, in an atmosphere of unity. What more could we want to teach future generations?


Gracias. // Thank you.

Strong: the women who took this picture were yelling pose ideas, whooping at my muscles and just generally cracking me up.


* -azo is a suffix commonly used in Argentina to refer to a protest. It literally refers to something big (hitazo is a "big hit") or a quick action/movement (codazo, from the word for elbow, refers to someone jabbing their elbow into someone.)




Featured Posts
Recent Posts
Follow Us
  • Facebook Basic Square
  • Twitter Basic Square
  • Google+ Basic Square
  • Grey Facebook Icon
  • Grey Twitter Icon
  • Grey Instagram Icon
Valentina Iricibar
Writer