Benazir Bhutto: Face of the Goddess

I’m shocked and deeply saddened by Joan Walsh of Salon and other commentors’ focus on Bhutto’s death as purely a political and economic catalyst and how it will affect the US and world politics.

How about the loss of a WOMAN LEADER in a world increasingly polarized between the masculine and feminine? In the Reagan/Thatcher 80s, Bhutto was to me a shining example of how a woman could be both feminine and powerful, both compassionate and effective—and perhaps more importantly, how the people of a culture widely seen as much more sexist and restrictive to women could actually vote a woman into power. It was the beginning of my recognition of women and feminism throughout the world, not just in the US; of my understanding that feminism wasn’t just about middle-class US women being able to have abortions or go to professional universities or play sports or feel safe to walk home at night, but that it also encompassed the other 95% of the world, of which more than half was women. Women in societies where they could be forced to leap upon the funeral pyre of their husbands from forced marriages. Women who could be killed for simply loving—or looking at—the wrong man. Women whose very lives—not to mention their sexual fulfillment and ability to give birth safely—were threatened by female genital mutilation. And all the hundreds of thousands of women who would never be because of female infanticide in the two most populous countries.

Being from the US and having very little exposure to politics in the rest of the world, I was ignorant of the progressive Scandinavian societies where women achieved near equity during Second Wave feminism. I only remember seeing Corazon Aquino and Benazir Bhutto and other “Third World” women coming to power—being VOTED into power—and thinking, what’s WRONG with us? Even Thatcher, although I admired her abilities (but not her politics) was the Iron Lady, the Man with Tits, the Wombless Woman. There was nothing feminine about her.

But Bhutto, ah, Bhutto made leadership seem naturally graceful and feminine and full of compassion. I did not follow her career closely, know little of the circumstances surrounding her falls from power either time—I have no doubt that there were elements of corruption and power-mongering around her governments, as there are around every modern government. I also have no doubt that the same sorts of people who love to hate Hillary Rodham Clinton and Nancy Pelosi and Helen Clark and Arundhati Roy and Wangari Maathi and all the other strong, powerful women in the world today, also hated Benazir Bhutto and did all they could to bring her down in the eyes of the world and her people. The current epidemic of misogyny didn’t spring, fully formed, from the Bush administration or fanatical Islam—it has been quietly (and not so quietly, see Pat Robertson and the late Jerry Falwell) fomenting ever since the beginning of the Second Wave. It certainly existed where Bhutto was popular.

Speaking of fanatical Islam, however, that was another thing that Bhutto did … for me. Here was a worldly, educated, powerful woman, an excellent speaker, obviously capable of drawing crowds of support (of men as well as women) who was a Muslim. Benazir Bhutto was the face of feminist Islam; she gave credence to the stories of Fatima and other powerful Muslim women—mother and wives and daughters of Mohammed who, like the women surrounding Jesus of Nazareth, were instrumental and absolutely essential in spreading the teachings of Islam. I also suspect that, like almost all women, no matter how important or powerful, they also performed many “feminine” tasks such as care-giving and nurturing and cooking and teaching and building community—in short, the tasks that hold the society together. Tasks that our political leaders should focus on more, rather than trying to force change by economic or political (or violent) means. Of course, I don’t mean to say that Benazir Bhutto spent her time baking bread or wiping the fevered brow of her children—although she very well may have; or that those things are more important than leading the pro-democracy movement and calling for the eradication of poverty in Pakistan. But are they really less important? And even though I never saw her do them and don’t know that she ever did them, there was something about her that gave the impression that great leadership could encompass all of those elements of femininity and compassion without losing any of its power.

After September 11 and the Bali bombing, I was living in Australia. Benazir Bhutto seemed to visit frequently, appearing on many forums and political discussion shows, trying to bridge the cultural gap between frightened, suspicious “white” Australians and angry, suspicious Muslim Australians. Despite incidences of violence and racial unrest that broke out in some of the inner cities (more a result of ghettoization and economic disparity, I believe, than actual religious radicalization) Australians seemed by and large to want to believe that the two cultures could live side by side, could intermingle and create a multi-cultural society. It’s a belief that has practical as well as ideological implications for Australia; after all, the island nation’s closest neighbour is the world’s largest Muslim nation: Indonesia. Although right-of-centre (and Bush “arse-licker” as dubbed by the former leader of the opposition) Prime Minister John Howard was able to wrangle two electoral victories out of fear and xenophobia, his adamant support for the “war on terror” and particularly its implications of a “war on Islam” made many Australian uncomfortable and, I hope, had more than a little to do with Howard’s recent humiliating loss.

I digress. I mention Bhutto’s visits to Australia as she seemed at the time one of the few people able to pour oil on those troubled waters of racial and religious tension. She seemed always, to me, the ultimate in feminine grace and power, with a beauty not simply of face and form, but of compassion and wisdom as well. In short, she embodied a contemporary image of the Goddess; in doing so, she gave me hope. Now, my only hope is that her decision to return to Pakistan for the movement, despite the risks she well knew she took, will achieve what she set out to achieve—a step along her home’s road to democracy, another stone in the path to peace.

Mourning the Loss of Another Great Sister

Today Benazir Bhutto finally succumbed to the assassination that has been stalking her since her return to her native Pakistan. As the first woman leader of an Islamic state, Bhutto greatly impacted both the Muslim world and the world at large. She showed that it was possible to be graceful, feminine, beautiful and yet still be an effective (and clearly threatening to dictatorship and patriarchy) leader.

Her loss is a horrendous blow to the pro-democracy movement in Pakistan; and despite US mouthings of proper outrage and shock, her election and/or the ascendancy of her party to any level of power (whether leadership or opposition) would’ve impeded US control and influence in Pakistan. So, although I would seriously doubt the Bush administration had any sort of direct hand in her murder, I’m sure there are things they could’ve done to make sure she was better protected.

As she was not. In an interview http://edition.cnn.com/2007/WORLD/asiapcf/11/04/bhutto/index.html Bhutto reflected on the first assassination attempt in October, when she had just returned to Pakistan. She questioned the refusal to allow her to have tinted windows in her car, to protect her anonymity; possibly more disturbing, however, were her observations that the street lights were turned off, the length of time it took for the police to file her “complaint”, and the fervid rejection of CIA and/or Scotland Yard forensic assistance in investigating the attack.

Despite the authorities’ obvious indifference to her safety, President Bhutto did not leave her country. By remaining in Pakistan to shore up the pro-democracy movement and as inspiration to her supporters, she showed a fortitude and courage no longer often seen in Western politicians. Like Aung San Suu Kyi, she remained a present, visible figure to give hope to those whose hope may have waned in the recent crackdown.

And like Aung San Suu Kyi, Wangari Maathi, Arundhati Roy, Liberia's Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf, Argentina’s President Cristina Fernandez, President: Michelle Bachelet, New Zealand’s Helen Clark, and the (small but growing) handful of women leaders around the world, Benazir Bhutto gave hope to women working for equality and justice.


As a radical leftist feminist, I find the concept of the headscarf (or burka or hajib) to reflect submission to a patriarchal religious tradition onerous. One of the great leaders of the 20th century, however—and great hero to me—Benazir Bhutto wore the scarf out of respect for the ancient tradition of her people.

She did so with an honor and grace—and a humility not often seen in any major world religious or other tradition today.

In honor of her, her belief in true, grassroots democracy, her commitment to peace, her people and the people of the world, I am honored and humbled to wear a headscarf today.

May Prime Minister Bhutto’s ideals live on.

"Pro-life": Language of Patriarchy

As an enthusiastic reader of Salon.com, I often comment on articles and even participate in debates with other reader/commentors. In today’s issue, Glenn Greenwald compares Ron Paul’s “Pro-life” stance to that of Harry Reid and asks what hypocrisy makes Democrat supporters condemn one but tolerate the other http://letters.salon.com/opinion/greenwald/2007/12/20/reid_paul/view/index8.html?show=all . That debate rages on and I will not go into it here.

My question, however, is one that has bothered me for many years, and neither Greenwald nor any other “liberal” or “leftist” or “Democrat” has ever addressed it, let alone answered it to my satisfaction: Why do we allow the right (and this is pretty much a religious right issue) to frame the debate by using their language? How are anti-choice supporters “pro-life”? Study after study, statistic after statistic, shows that when abortion is illegal, women die. How is that pro-life? The VAST majority of right-wingers who call themselves “pro-life” only apply the term to fetuses, but not to living, breathing conscious adults on death row; nor to victims of chronic disease who might be helped by stem-cell research; nor to victims of the war and violence that their government perpetrates on innocent civilians the world over.

This is what "pro-life"/anti-choice looks like.

The right-wing-coined “pro-life” is an emotionally-charged term designed by its very connotation to put the other side in the wrong—obviously, anyone who is not “pro-life” must be “anti-life”. Nothing could be further from the truth. Pro-choice IS pro-life—pro-quality of life; pro-healthy life; pro-safety and pre-natal care, disease-free, joy-provoking-having-a-child-because-we-WANT-to life. NO one is pro-abortion (except, I like to joke, retroactively, when certain politicians make ridiculous or dangerous decisions). As a long-standing member of the pro-choice community from a personal, political, and abortion-counselor perspective, I can state unequivocally that there are no people more aware of the gravity nor more personally touched by the issue of choice than those in that community.

My point here, however, is how language is used as an ideological whip, and how liberal (or mainstream, if you insist) analysts often seem unable to acknowledge this. Certainly Noam Chomsky’s work and the respect he receives in political theory circles can’t help but illustrate that language does, in fact, create culture. It’s no mistake that the most respected progressive political analyst in the world today is a linguist by profession. Chomsky’s ability to point out what is really meant by what is said is the key to understanding how the corporatocracy has achieved and maintained its power. Before Chomsky, there were Orwell, Woolf, Swift, even Jefferson and any number of wordsmiths who recognized and discussed at length the effect of manipulated language on the political reality and the public’s understanding of it. In order to function, members of a democratic state must have equal access to information—and the definitions of the terms used to produce that information must be agreed upon. Certain terminology must be universal. This issue is particularly pertinent in the immediate political climate, where the definition of “torture” is no longer one on which, apparently, consensus exists.

Any student of political theory who is not aware of how language—word choices, the subtle differences in connotation, the application of inappropriate terms so frequently that they become acceptable, even though the original meaning is completely distorted—is manipulated to achieve power needs to re-read Animal Farm: Some animals are more equal than others. Who can point out the inherent contradiction in that sentence? It’s similar to what an editor showed me not long ago—that something cannot be more unique. Either it’s unique or it’s not.

Same with equality. Either animals (even human animals) are equal, or they’re not. There are no gradations of equality. To say that some are more equal than others is, in the words of my Czech friend, “a nonsense”.

So the fact that Greenwald and many, many other political pundits from the left of center (itself a relative term when you compare even just western political ideologies, let alone those of other cultures)—and even some of them women—continue to use the term “pro-life” in the context originally coined by the religious right raises my hackles of suspicion. I define myself as a leftist because I believe that liberals are essentially reformers, and I don’t believe that reform is enough. I believe we need a revolution. It might not need to be violent, but we need to throw out the current system—particularly the values it espouses and forces on us—and develop a new one. It’s not enough to create a kinder, gentler neo-liberalism; that only results in, like the Victorian age, being nicer to the poor. We need to create a system that eliminates poverty, war, violence, oppression and unnecessary suffering. Not to mention one that allows the continued functioning of a healthy ecosystem here on planet Earth—a proposition that seems a no-brainer to me, but seems to be meeting with all kinds of resistance from those who have the most to lose!

Obviously, my view is that of a minority. I believe, like Arundhati Roy, that that minority is growing every day; that people, particularly in the “developing” world, are waking up to the fact that, between the oppressors and the oppressed, “we be many and they be few”. Greenwald and most widely read political pundits, however, would not define themselves as revolutionaries. And here is where my suspicions catch root: I am aware, as many are not, that to advocate a true equality of women is revolutionary. A society where women have equal access and equal power would (or does, in the few places it exists today) look very different from the society in which we live. To change the language would change the culture—and even the liberal left is still dominated by white males. Does Greenwald’s—and others’—choice to use this term, a cornerstone of patriarchy’s control over women, reveal that even “liberal” society is unwilling to challenge the dominant paradigm?

On Developing as a Feminist

Part of my Femifesta is ecofeminism. I’ve been an ecofeminist for 20 years; my feminism came about when I was 16, read The Women’s Room, and realized that the ostracism, criticism and judgement I had been facing—for not doing what I was supposed to do, not valuing what I was supposed to value, not being who I was supposed to be—didn’t result from who I was but from an artificial social construct of gender called sexism. I was at the time aware of racism—its artificiality, its arbitrariness, its injustice. I had always been, for the most part, much more interested in books about girls and their adventures. I had (not so quietly) rebelled against the restrictions placed on me by parents, teachers, caretakers, even peers; but all the while I internalized the criticism and subconsciously believed I was somehow fatally flawed.

What a relief to realize it wasn’t me—it was a social injustice, not a personal flaw. I celebrated by becoming even more rebellious; and for a Southern “well-bred” white girl, that meant, more than anything else, sexually liberated and highly experimental (well, again, remember the context). I immediately jumped the color barrier—after all, my caretakers as a child had been ample, warm, honest-smelling black women. We didn’t call them Mammy, we called them by their first names: Beatrice, Anne, Hattie. And they called our parents Mr. and Miz (they only called me “Miz” when I was in trouble, as in “Miz Jane, you better get your little butt in this bathtub!”). My mother tried to control by nagging and the occasional switch; Dad hollered and hit. I respected neither of them and my response to their “discipline” was the same as a cat’s: I just didn’t let them see me do it.

But those large, firm, black women had my complete respect and obedience—well, as much as I could give it—in exchange for the warm and sincere affection they showered on me. No place was so safe after a knee scrape or a wasp sting than Anne’s ample lap; only her sweet-smelling breath could ease the burn of mercurochrome. So when Marilyn French and feminism gave me permission to follow my desires for sex (and approval and affection and love), it was natural that I crossed that forbidden color barrier.
My first black lover was a beautiful man—at 17, he was tall, sleekly muscled with the athlete’s broad shoulders tapering to a fine sinuous waist; upper arms as lithe and powerful as a race horse’s; smooth, narrow hips and that beautiful black man’s butt: high, hard and round. I wasn’t inexperienced and the size of his “member” didn’t shock or frighten me, but it definitely did nothing to dispel the size mythology that surrounds black men’s sexuality. I never had an orgasm with him—I had not yet had orgasm during sex. I’d only learnt a short while before to have one with myself and I was too shy to suggest any extracurricular activities on his part. I don’t remember the sex itself being particularly fabulous—only the urgency of my desire. It never took very long and he, like every other teenage boy I slept with, was always eager to be on his way afterwards. Most of my pleasure was in the anticipation and the admiration of his beautiful, mocha-colored body; his huge, slightly tilted brown eyes; his regally high cheekbones and aquiline nose; and those full lips, so gorgeous, so inviting—the first time he kissed me I nearly fainted. I probably would’ve been happy with just kisses.

Less than a year after our—relationship? affair? fuck-fest?—ended, he was dead. He was in an automobile accident; we’d gone to different colleges but a mutual friend told me about the horrendous wreck and that he was hospitalized. When I saw her the next day in the student center, her usually knowing good-natured features ashey with pain, I knew he was dead; I fainted at the news. I had never known anyone so close to me to die. Especially someone so vital and pulsing and arrogant with life. It was impossible to fathom. I went home for the funeral, but when I drove downtown and saw all those dignified black folks out mourning yet another loss of youth and beauty, I knew I didn’t belong. His parents wouldn’t welcome me—they’d answered the phone a few times when I’d called and I knew they were no more happy about him seeing a white girl than my parents would’ve been if they’d known. I couldn’t go to the viewing or the funeral—some time later, I went to the grave, a flat, scrubby plot, the stone tiny and nearly anonymous. I imagined that godlike beauty shrinking and crumbling in the coffin; his athletic valor, his physical grace, his demand that the world acknowledge and respect him. I certainly had. I mourned not knowing him better—his dreams, the impediments—of which there were many. He came from a upwardly-mobile black family in an old Southern town that had fought integration hard and had even come to violence not long before I was in high school. The fact that he was in college was a triumph, though I’d heard he was partying too much and not working hard enough—he was bright, very bright, but unprepared and unmotivated. It’s questionable that he’d have finished college. I think now of the Houseman poem:
“Now you will not swell the rout

Of lads that wore their honours out,

Runners whom renown outran

And the name died before the man.”

and wonder if, despite all his beauty and potential, his life would’ve got better or worse; if, were he alive today, I’d still admire and respect him.
But I digress. The radical-ness of my feminism never diminishes, though its form morphs and shifts—a belief in liberated, free sexuality has only developed; but my philosophy of feminism grows, becomes larger and more inclusive. The first foray outside of women and sex was ecofeminism. I visited a friend at Evergreen State College in Olympia Washington. Famous for producing such 90s radicals and creatives as Cobain, Vedder, Love and Cornell, in the 80s Evergreen and Olympia also nurtured (and probably still does) a quite radical green pocket—and one that fully incorporated a feminist perspective. In Olympia, I met my friend’s “goddess-Mother” Willow, who soaked the blood out of her menstrual rags and used the water on her moon plants—which produced the most lush, amazing flowers I’ve ever seen! I learnt about Starhawk and Charlene Spretnik; James Lovelock and Deep Ecology; Alice Walker and Marge Piercy. It being the 80s, and a crest in the wave of women’s empowerment that began in the 70s, these ideas got a lot of play at the time. I was lucky enough to visit some of the places they got their start: Olympic National Forest, for example, is a place where the philosophies of Deep Ecology seem not only possible, but undeniable. It is like the Narnian forest that Lucy tries so hard to waken in Prince Caspian; the trees are like Tolkein’s quiet, deeply raging Ents. You feel their energy, their power—at the time, I also felt sadness. I did not belong in their forest, it was clear. Even though my intentions were good, I had no place there. I had flashes of the dryad who comes to tell King Rillian that the Lantern Waste is being murdered; but I was not the king, nor were these trees subject to me. Nor did they know that I was not one of those who laid them waste in broad, murderous swathes that caused the topsoil to wash away and the land to bleed its rich, red clay into the rivers of the Pacific Northwest. It was a powerful connection I made with the trees there, one that has never left me. It also opened me up to many more connections with the natural world—connections that I remembered from my early childhood but that I had lost in the process of “civilization”.

(to be continued)