I like lights. The ones that shine at night. During summer, sitting on the beach, I patiently wait for those small lights to light up the sea, to give it life. When I manage to find sheltered places, dark ones, like the way night used to be, I see sky and sea reveal themselves with their shards of diamond. And I’m simply sitting there, enthralled and happy, retreating from the rest of the world. I follow the path of the comets, I look out for planets, for signs; suddenly, I get to the stars. In silence, I listen to the night and I hold onto its bright lights like the hand of a loved one. In this corner of tiny lights, my vision broadens and dilates into places far away from where my body is.

I attain a marginal position and in the silence I listen to the space made of darkness and of “shards of diamond”. That’s how it happens that, even in real life, I prefer to listen and learn, rather than talk. And I find myself enchanted, just as if I were in front of a starry sky, when I read on the newspaper la Repubblica (February 24 2015) that in Istanbul and other Turkish cities, men are wearing skirts. They do it for Ozgecan Aslan, the twenty year old girl raped and killed on a bus, the 13th of February. “Those who walk Istikial Cadessi these days, the street of the red of bus, heart of Istanbul and pulse of Turkey, may run into colorful groups of men dressed as women. Pleated dresses and black silk stockings from which legs with footballer calves and hairy heads poke out. But the faces are serious…There are men with headbands in their hair and fathers with their children in baby slings. Some sing. Some clap. Some raise their fists in the air. Some lift pink placards. Some scream out slogans: “No mercy for Ozgecan’s killers!”, “Wear a skirt too!” or “Did you hear Ozgecan’s scream?”. All for her, the twenty year old girl, raped, killed, amputated, burned, tossed into the river… Turkey has been questioning itself for ten days…

In Mersin, women have chained themselves in front of the court. At the funeral, the imam ordered Ozgecan’s girlfriends to stay behind, to let the men have their traditional place, but the girls placed themselves in the first row, in front of the coffin and then loaded it onto their shoulders…” it is not easy to be a woman in Turkey, just like it is not in India, or any other country of the world for that matter, except for some small exceptions. And women in these patriarchal societies are aggressive and rowdy, trying to obtain rights and freedom. Their voices are being heard more and more powerfully despite clashing with a political and religious power that never changes and that ignores progress, freedom of discussion and respect for people regardless gender differences, which is respect for women. And then, in a country full of contradictions, like the Turkish one, when men publicly question the reasons of twisted sexualities that originate from hate and a deep fury mixed with envy of a female universe always fighting against fixed roles and thousand-years-old male supremacies; that’s when those men are my friends. They are shards of diamond in the darkness that surrounds us. For Ozgecan and all the others, here is a poem by Marina Cvetaeva:

World migration has begun in darkness. These are wandering around night land – trees, These are ripening by golden wine – grapes,
These are traveling from house to house – stars, These are rivers beginning the way – back, And I want to sleep – on your chest.

From Turkey to India

India is ashamed, the largest democracy in the world censors a film on rapes. In the documentary, one of the killers of the young girl raped and killed in 2012 (she was one a bus too and one might wonder: what kind of men are bus drivers? They seem to hire special ones; careful about traffic and bus stops during the day but as soon as night falls they turn into hateful assassins) says that the young medical student should not have reacted and that good girls shouldn’t go out at night anyway. They have the ministers of Modi’s government on their side, whom define the documentary a conspiracy against India. A conspiracy because it reveals the clash between the “two souls of India”, torn on the attitude towards women and their rights. Preachers and exponents of the party in power “have, more or less, used the same words of the rapist driver... and one of them even stated that the girl should have let the man take her and asked God to help her; that way, her life would have been spared.” (Raimondo Bultrini, la Repubblica, Thursday the 5th of March 2015).

The reality of India is, just like every reality, ever-changing and it produces actions and reactions opposite to each other. That’s how little boys and girls from Bengal and Sharipara are saved by programs for the protection of minors of Unicef and Save The Children. They are saved form the risk of kidnappings, abuse, moonlighting, forced marriage, slavery and organ trafficking. During the last twenty years, the work of international NGOs and that of my friend Gabriella Fresa too have contribute to reducing the phenomenon by creating groups of prevention and report even in the most remote villages.

Today is the 6th of March and in the city, initiatives for Women’s Day are feverish. I went far away. I went to Turkey and even farther, to India. I became witness of the destruction of every kind of beauty. Of that beauty that coincides with the good and kind look that sees someone akin to them in other people. In this case, two women. I looked far away but how are we doing here in Italy? Marinella Bertozzi was killed by her husband the 30th of October of last year and he was later arrested for murder with more than one aggravating circumstance. The abuse had been going on for a long time and it is documented on a forty-minute-long audio file recorded by Marinella herself. Of course, since October the 30th more femicides have occurred – one every three days.

Francesca and Concita

Every morning, whenever it’s possible (but also when it isn’t), I ride my bike along the riverbank. Sometimes I stop by my friend Francesca, who owns a shop not much different from the ones you can see in western films: from shoes to seeds, from seasonal fruits and vegetables to t-shirts and shirts, from fertilizer to cat food. And much more. Francesca has a pretty face and clear eyes. She is an avid reader and when she speaks she has the gift of a very lively communication. She told me one morning: “You see Mariella, us women, we have a great flaw. We fall in love. And some of us who don’t appreciate themselves at all end up falling in love with their executioner. If their man takes her cell phone away and doesn’t let her see her friends it’s just because he want his woman only for himself. Sometimes he beats her but then he deeply regrets it and she believes him. Because, you know; he loves her. And you know what I did, Mariella? I drew a nice circle and put myself in its middle and no one, no one, can get in. They don’t even try because they know I can get rather nasty, scary nasty.” And while she was telling me this she drew the circle on the ground, miming all the scenes. An extraordinary spectacle of fierce authenticity. When I told her that women who are victims of femicides often denounce they executioners, she looked me in the eye and said: “It might be, but women need to get nastier”.

It all came back to my mind this morning while I was reading a beautiful piece by Concita De Gregorio, published on la Repubblica too: “… I would like a fierce Women’s Day. I would like for all of us women to abdicate the presumption of understanding other people’s weaknesses –bullying, no matter how it manifests itself, is always a weakness,… - and saying you are right for once, it’s just a matter of convenience. You better be respectful and shut up, pay me for what I’m worth, avoid insulting me, stop raising your hands and your voice and reducing everything to this so called sexual desire which is no one’s but yours, not because it’s right but because if you don’t, then it’s going to be a problem for you. I reveal who you really are, I sue you, I stop concealing your paucity, I ruin you. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into…”. Yes, this is exactly what my friend Francesca told me, she just used other words.