Catégorie : Geopolitical Issues

After years of silence in the face of forced sterilisation imposed by President Alberto Fujimori’s government in an attempt to reduce poverty, they are now seeking redress for the injustice they suffered. From 1995 until the early 2000s, nearly 300,000 indigenous Peruvian women suffered as a result of one of the most violent and reductive political decisions regarding the female body.

These women are still marginalised and sometimes forgotten, and have never had political representation to challenge these sterilisations or to understand what was being done to them. They were forced to sign documents they did not understand because of their social status, which was considered a factor in poverty and high birth rates in their communities.

This so-called national economic solution involves the profound dehumanisation and physical dispossession of their identity, branding them for life and causing lifelong psychological trauma and constant physical pain.

There is no respite, as it affects every aspect of their humanity and their right to possess their own bodies. This constitutes not only a profound violation of human rights, but also a political strategy whereby women’s bodies are viewed as instruments of economic regulation rather than personal property.

The most flagrant expression of this perception is the absence of consent: in the dominant social consciousness, often supported by those who make decisions on behalf of the people, the female body is detached from a woman’s identity and reduced to its reproductive capacity.

Decisions about what happens to their bodies are made for them, ignoring their history and uniqueness. This denial of personal identity is another form of violence. The psychological trauma impacts their relationship with their bodies to the extent that they feel as though they no longer belong to them, despite inhabiting them and feeling physical pain when their fallopian tubes are cut. The feeling of silent injustice, of living in a body whose actions express dispossession, is incredibly violent.

Yet they continue to fight, despite the government’s fine words claiming that it cannot offer reasonable individual compensation. They support each other and express a sisterhood mixed with resilience and a quest for dignity, which they are not prepared to negotiate at any price.

This dispossession has not only taken away their right to choose: it has consequences for their daily lives, leading to physical, psychological and economic violence. Many suffer to the point of being unable to maintain a decent standard of living, particularly when working in the fields, due to repetitive pain. A decision designed to ‘avoid poverty’ has in fact amplified their difficulties and weakened their health.

And yet, these women continue to show astonishing resilience. Their actions reveal a determination to believe in life despite the dark times they have experienced.

Seemingly insignificant signs reveal a thirst for life: the care they take in wearing brightly coloured outfits, the attention they pay to their hairstyles, the small pieces of jewellery they wear, hats, and sometimes subtle make-up. These gestures may seem superficial, but they are acts of faith and reappropriation, sometimes passive, sometimes active, of their identity as women.

Indulging in moments of self-care in spaces marked by violence is not simply superficial; it is a silent yet powerful affirmation of self. It is a way of whispering, ‘I exist, even if you do not acknowledge me.’

You see colours; in reality, they are manifestos of hope in a world that has constantly tried to extinguish the smouldering spark of faith within them.

What if your power you hold lives in your femininity? They draw greatly from it without acknowledging it, because the world has condemned femininity to be nothing more than superficial.

The fashion industry has allowed the infiltration of a network exploiting young girls from East African countries such as South Sudan and Somalia vulnerable and defenseless, merely seeking survival after lives marked by war and political instability

In this French documentary about the recruitment of models in refugee camps, we discover the story of thousands of women whose slender height and Grace Jones-like features are perceived as their only spark of hope. Most of these young girls have never known a stable life or the possibility of supporting themselves. They see in the dream of Fashion Week not just an opportunity, but a priceless chance to finally live and take care of their loved ones.

But reality is far more cruel. The fashion industry does not welcome them with open arms it scrutinizes them, analyzing every detail to determine whether they can make the designer clothes shine. This dream begins with scouting in a context of political instability and extreme financial precarity. Most have grown up or were even born in refugee camps like Kakuma, in northwestern Kenya. They all come from countries marked by severe famine and chronic political insecurity, which led them to seek refuge in these camps and try to tame a necessary peace, just to be able to embrace life.

They are thirsty for an escape, and it’s precisely this longing that the scouts perceive. These business-minded talent scouts exploit that thirst for life, selling them the promise of a new existence: one filled with spotlights, runways, and camera flashes. Their beauty would be admired, their silhouettes monetized, their futures reinvented. For these girls who have only ever known survival, the dream becomes an ideal path a near-miraculous way out.

But this quest for another life breeds blind trust. This dream, because it is the only one offered to them, becomes their sole hope. So they accept the recruitment conditions, believing with all their heart that this new beginning will give meaning to their lives and a future to their families. They arrive in Europe to attend castings, hoping that those first fifteen days will be enough to win over the industry. But if, at the end of that period, they are not selected, they must return. And with them, an entire dream of social ascension collapses crushed by a fashion world that is as ruthless as it is competitive, where empathy is non-existent.

The violence is twofold. First, it is psychological. Facing their own failures and disappointments reinforces their belief that they are worthless. Despite having that Grace Jones morphology, they cannot hide their shame. They are forced to confront it upon returning, leaving them emotionally unmoored some even driven to suicide to avoid surviving with the added trauma of an emotional roller coaster that took them from joy to hope, then to disappointment and disillusionment. These young girls already leave with almost no self-worth. The joy stirred by this dream is the only form of validation they’ve ever known. And when that dream is taken away, they are brutally thrown back into another kind of violence: economic violence. They return in debt, forced to find a quick almost vital way to repay the cost of this illusion.

They live in a constant state of survival. It is the only consistency they’ve ever known: a life marked by insecurity and instability. This context deeply weakens them, making them easy prey and silent victims always on the edge, at the mercy of a world that gives them no break.

The cruelty of this recruitment process and the disregard for who they are women who have never even had the chance to embrace their dignity shows how the consequences of armed conflict and political instability automatically render women vulnerable. This conditions them to accept a life of pure survival, never having the opportunity to realize they are more than that more than refugees, but women who have the right to seek the stability of a dignified life.

So, you may ask me: how can femininity help? Rethinking femininity for these women is, above all, a matter of perspective. No one has ever told them that they are human beings in their own right beyond the refugee label. And yet, they are. Embracing and questioning how femininity can serve them is, first and foremost, about becoming fully aware of their own existence restoring space for their being in a world that forgets they have the right to exist, first and foremost, for themselves. It’s the opportunity to walk a path where they choose to appreciate themselves through small daily gestures of well-being something essential to every human being.

What if, in the end, femininity wasn’t a weakness, but a tool for healing? A way to exist fully, to reclaim the gaze upon oneself, and to rise not in silence, but in the awareness of one’s worth. Because it’s no longer just about surviving in a world that refuses to see them: it’s about seeing themselves, at last, and recognizing that they are full subjects in their own right. What if the power you hold lives in your femininity?

The physical and economic violence suffered by indigenous women traps them in an oppression that forces them into a constant struggle for survival. Preoccupied with satisfying their primary needs, they are deprived of the space they need to get to know themselves and to question their well-being, in particular by using their femininity as a vehicle for emancipation.

Indigenous populations are often perceived as marginal, living outside the dominant norms. Yet indigenous women are the guardians of a culture and tradition that they strive to pass down from generation to generation. Over the years, they have had to contend with increasingly unprotective policies that threaten not only their fundamental rights, but also their heritage. One of the greatest dangers they face is the growing insecurity of their right to land, which is guaranteed by the Brazilian constitution and recognised by several court rulings. But in the face of economic pressure, this right is increasingly being challenged. Large industrial companies, backed by the government, refuse to respect the protection of indigenous territories and covet their natural resources.

It is in this struggle that violence intensifies. These women lead a way of life deeply rooted in the traditions of their ancestors, a way of existing that clashes with capitalist logic. In these societies, difference is only tolerated when it is profitable. To be a woman is already to face discriminatory norms and policies, even when they are not openly directed against us. Oppression is a weight that we are taught to carry, to integrate until we accept it as inevitable. But while all women suffer violence, it does not always take the same form.

Because of their marginalisation, indigenous women are doubly exposed to oppression. Those who try to adapt to the rules imposed by society encounter physical, mental, sexual, psychological or economic violence, whether conscious or unconscious, which I will explain in more detail shortly. But those who refuse to conform and defend an alternative way of life face even more ferocious violence. By protecting their land, they stand up to industrial and political giants. By preserving their environment, they stand up to the destructive logic of profit. And by asserting their identity, they refuse to be invisible.

Their marginalisation is not limited to the direct violence they suffer, particularly during heated confrontations with industrialists to take away their land and prevent them from returning to it. They also face economic dispossession that prevents them from living in dignity. Dependent on traditional agriculture, their livelihood is threatened by urbanisation and the destruction of their environment, particularly by the construction of hydrocarbon dams, the cornerstone of the country’s industrial activity. But economic violence is often underestimated, because it doesn’t always leave visible traces. Yet it deprives these women of their autonomy and increases their vulnerability. And when this economic violence is combined with physical violence, the priority becomes survival. We then learn to accept the unacceptable, not because it is normal, but because the human mind, overwhelmed by shock and repetition, eventually resigns itself to it.

Being a woman often means being conditioned never to put yourself first, always to think of others before yourself. But when violence is omnipresent, it becomes almost impossible to realise the extent of the oppression suffered. I’ve always wondered whether their dress and make-up are not, in fact, an affirmation of a femininity that is culturally unique and identifies them, a creativity inherited from their ancestors, emphasising an aestheticism that disturbs as much as it attracts the eye. And what if this expression of femininity was, in fact, a form of identity preservation, a means of preserving an existence of its own that doesn’t fit into the dominant codes, but remains a femininity in its own right.

Femininity is much more than an appearance: it’s part of an identity journey, a process that builds self-esteem, confidence and inner well-being. But how do you reclaim your image, your place, your identity, when existence itself is a struggle? These indigenous women don’t even have the space to think about themselves, because every day is dedicated to survival, to defending their land and their culture against the violence to which they are subjected. They are deprived of a fundamental right: the right to discover themselves and to exist fully, beyond resistance, to discover the power that lives in their femininity.