Sara Mojtehedzadeh's blog

A disease of homosexuals, junkies, minorities; the myths surrounding HIV are parasitic, feeding off the vulnerability of those who have already been consigned to the margins of society. They are woven into a fictitious world where the sick and healthy are discrete and identifiable categories, and where membership in each is determined arbitrarily by race, sexual orientation, and gender.

They are the myths that the Sophia Forum is seeking to dismantle. Initiated in 2005, the Forum is a voluntary women's network based in UK exploring how HIV affects women at home and abroad. In its panel discussion on October 1^st entitled "In Sickness and In Health: Women and HIV in 2009", the Sophia Forum drew attention to the acute need for gender specificity in understanding a condition that effects not merely homosexuals or the "socially marginal", but an estimated 30,000 women in the UK every year.

A disease of homosexuals, junkies, minorities; the myths surrounding HIV are parasitic, feeding off the vulnerability of those who have already been consigned to the margins of society. They are woven into a fictitious world where the sick and healthy are discrete and identifiable categories, and where membership in each is determined arbitrarily by race, sexual orientation, and gender.

They are the myths that the Sophia Forum is seeking to dismantle. Initiated in 2 5, the Forum is a voluntary women's network based in UK exploring how HIV affects women at home and abroad. In its panel discussion on October 1^st entitled "In Sickness and In Health: Women and HIV in 2 9", the Sophia Forum drew attention to the acute need for gender specificity in understanding a condition that effects not merely homosexuals or the "socially marginal", but an estimated 3 , women in the UK every year.

From the stone carving adorning the War Museum in Tehran, two women, chadors wrapped tightly around them, stare grimly ahead. Their lips are contorted into determined frowns. One wields a rifle.

It has the 3^rd highest proportion of female Members of Parliament in the world; over 70 percent of its health sector workers are women, including 64 percent of doctors; and its Family Code obliges men to share domestic duties and child care responsibilities equally with women.

It's not paradise. Or Sweden. It's a little island whose GDP per capita is half that of the United Kingdom, a place more associated with sickles and hammers than hammering through woman-friendly legislation in parliament.

Cuba remains one of the most misunderstood and misreported countries on the planet. When Carolina Amador Perez of the Federacion de Mujeres Cubanas (Federation of Cuban Women) and Gilda Chacon of the Cuban Trade Union Centre came to Tooks Chambers in London, it was clear that they wanted to set the record straight.

Their talk provided some welcome insight on the way that gender politics has unfolded in a country much-maligned in the Western media. Established in 1960, the Federation of Cuban Women was the first social organization founded in post-Revolutionary Cuba. Since then, it has enjoyed enormous success in educating women (99.8% are literate) incorporating them in to the work force (which is 46% female) and passing a Family Code that guarantees women equal social and economic rights. Today the FMC, ostensibly a non-governmental organization, represents 85 percent of Cuban women over the age of 14.

The statistics surrounding female participation in Cuban public life are, on the surface, so impressive that Perez jokingly suggests that what Cuba really needs is a Federation of Cuban Men.

Perez and Chacon's censure of Cuba is carefully calibrated and avoids any direct criticism of the extant regime; Perez calls Cuba an ‘imperfect but perfectable society'. Despite not explicitly addressing these flaws, Perez and Chacon's talk does address a much more convoluted issue: the culture of sexism. Indeed, effecting political change in Cuba is arguably easier than tackling the deeply ingrained traditions that legitimize inequality.

Hiding behind a set of inspiring numbers and figures is a serious undercurrent of machismo, or male domination, which underwrites much of Cuban life in the private sphere. 

Though Cuban law sets out equal rights and duties in domestic tasks, traditional attitudes about gender roles often prevail and many women are expected to take full responsibility in household affairs in addition to full time work. Perez also notes that while the culture of machismo frowns upon physical violence against women, psychological and emotional abuse continue to be problematic in Cuban society - an issue that the CMF has organized a national working group to attend to.

The CMF's goal of democratizing family life remains elusive. And while statistics and statutes are important, they do not portray the subtleties of female subordination that often have deep historical roots. As in the Western world, it seems that legal measures to protect and empower women in Cuba outpace the cultural shifts necessary achieve full gender equality.

According to Perez, Cuban women are ‘content but not yet satisfied' with their progress. But the Cuban example is compelling because it complicates the Western conception of developed and underdeveloped states, a paradigm that tends to equate progress with ‘becoming like us'. At a time when the pay differential between men and women in the UK has recently increased to 17 percent, and when only 20 percent of all MPs in this country are women, a refusal to acknowledge the successes of other political and economic models -even when they are deeply flawed in some respects - seems foolish.

Indeed, Perez is visibly emotional when she speaks of Fidel Castro and she tells me that she sees him as a real leader, a man who genuinely believes that women are a fundamental and equal part of a revolutionary society.

To what extent her sentiments are popularly shared in Cuba is debatable.  Many would argue that Cuba's political restrictions and its economic woes, aggravated by the US embargo, have tarnished the governments ‘revolutionary' credentials. Moreover, the effects of economic hardship have been borne disproportionately by women.

But what Perez articulates is a continued belief in justice and equality, ideals that were integral to the Cuban revolution just as they were integral to social movements of all different political stripes around the world. Those ideals - especially when it comes to women - have been badly bruised in countries that are communist, capitalist, and everything in between. So as economies flag and politicians flail, perhaps it is time to re-commit ourselves to creating societies that accept nothing less than the full participation of half their populations.

Kader Attia's installation ‘Ghosts' has dominated the media's coverage of the Saatchi Gallery's latest exhibit Unveiled: New Art from the Middle East. It is indeed a striking piece, showing 224 Muslim women crafted entirely from tinfoil crouching in prayer. The figures are hollow and vulnerable, yet their metallic shimmer lights up the room. The haunting quality of ‘Ghosts' permeates the rest of the exhibit, whose artists have used their work to express the trauma of war and the indignity of discrimination.

The theme of gender inequality pre-dominated the work of male and female artists alike. For instance, Ahmad Morshedloo's depiction of a woman at rest is an almost voyeuristic study of a moment of intimacy and solitude.  At first glance, the piece is cold, rigid, and almost morgue like; yet the subject's stiffly rendered figure contrasts with the movement in her mass of hair that dominates the canvas. The painting subtly illustrates the long-standing constraints on Middle Eastern women in the private sphere, but also comments on the way in which tradition and custom bequeath power to women. Hair, for example, has historically in the Middle East been considered a potent source of female sexuality and sway over men.

A similar ambiguity is evident in Shadi Ghadirian's compelling photographs of fully concealed women in the traditional Iranian chador, whose faces have been replaced by generic kitchen utensils. The 183 x 183 prints engulf the room with the anonymity of the shrouded, faceless figures. A current of violence and resentment underwrites some of the photographs, as steely cleavers, irons and cheese graters glint ominously in front of the muted, flowery chadors. Yet there is also a comedic and tender element to the pieces; Ghadirian manages to instill a sense of individuality into each of her anonymous subjects, with each utensil portrays a different facet of womanhood in all its complexity.

Equally powerful were the works Iraqi artist Halim al-Karim. Al-Karim's photography is informed by his personal experience with war; he evaded compulsory military service under Saddam Hussein during the first Gulf War by hiding for three years in a hole covered by rocks. His distorted, monochromatic print entitled ‘Hidden Prisoner' depicts harrowed, grotesque faces and evinces the monstrous nature of authoritarianism. The subjects' almost indistinguishable mouths contrast starkly with their eyes -  wide with terror - forcefully conveying the political oppression of Saddam's regime.  

In a recent review, the Financial Times panned the ‘Unveiled' exhibit as providing young artists who "have barely progressed beyond sixth-form competence" with  "too much exposure, too soon". On top of their youth, their artists are accused of portraying their cultural identity in a "transposed and diluted" fashion and of re-ifying the West's misguided perceptions of ‘the other'.

But the selection of young artists based both in the Middle East and abroad is an opportunity to highlight the way that a new generation is experiencing and interpreting national identity, exile, and immigration in a transnational era. It is also a valuable expose of the creativity and imagination produced under, and by, the conditions of censorship in many Middle Eastern countries.

‘Unveiled' is a sincere, critical, and unpretentious examination of the political, social, and cultural struggles that are unfolding in the region. It is also refreshing in the nuance and complexity that it brings to issues like gender inequality, the subject of much clumsy stereotyping in the West. The women depicted by Morshedloo and Ghadirian are not merely victims of their environment. They are active re-arrangers of their culture, defying clichés and demanding attention. Like Kader Attia's ‘Ghosts' these pieces portray an honest vulnerability; but it is outshined by a sense of strength and resolve.

Almost 800,000 Latin American women die each year from medical hazards associated with abortion, and fatalities resulting from the procedure make up 17 percent of all maternal deaths in the region.

To the disappointment of many women's rights activists, President Tabaré Vasquez of Uruguay vetoed a bill to legalize abortion last week. The bill, part of a larger document on sexual health and reproductive rights, would have decriminalized abortion during the first trimester of pregnancy. The bill was approved by the parliament and senate, and recent polls indicate that 63 percent of the population in Uruguay supported the proposed legislation.

President Vasquez, leader of the left wing coalition Frente Amplio and a former oncologist, said that he disagreed with the bill on both "philosophical and biological" grounds.

Currently, Uruguayan women can only legally obtain abortions if they have been raped or if the pregnancy endangers their lives. According to a 1938 law, women who have abortions under any other circumstances are liable to serve up to nine months in prison. Doctors who perform the procedure may face a sentence of six to twenty four months.

Abortions are illegal throughout most of Latin America, with the exception of Cuba and Mexico City. Nonetheless, an estimated 3.7 million women in Latin America have clandestine abortions every year.

Abortion is a multi-layered issue interwoven with themes of gender discrimination, culture, and religion. While many gender activists in Latin America argue that abortion is part of women's fundamental rights to health and security of person, the region's strong Catholic tradition militates against abortion's legalization. Many Latin American doctors are against abortion and have been known to report their patients to the authorities after surgeries where complications have arisen.

Yet the criminalization of abortion multiplies the risks involved, often forcing women to seek help from untrained practitioners in unsanitary conditions. Cross cutting the problem of medical safety is the issue of socio-economic inequality. While most middle or upper class women in Latin America can obtain safe abortions in spite of legislation, poor women generally cannot.

According to the Human Development Index and Gender Development Index, inequality is relatively low in Uruguay compared to most Latin American countries. But socio-economic disparities and gender discrimination continue to plague Uruguayan society. In a report issued earlier this month, the Committee on the Elimination of Discrimination Against Women expressed its concern over high incidences of teen pregnancy and maternal mortality in Uruguay. CEDAW also cited high secondary school drop out rates, low public participation and under/unemployment as severe problems for Uruguayan women - especially those of rural background or African descent.

Upon vetoing the bill to legalize abortion in Uruguay, President Vasquez argued that "it is more appropriate to look for a solution based on solidarity, giving a woman the freedom to make other choices and thereby save both her and the baby." Yet when access to education or health care is limited - as it often is for poor or rural women - making informed choices about reproductive health is difficult. Mr. Vasquez's veto reflects both a denial of the structural inequalities that impact women's personal security and health, and a negation of women's right to control over their bodies. For a country which, according to CEDAW, has made important strides toward ending gender discrimination, the veto is a disappointing retreat from the principles of equality and justice.

For some time now, the New York Times has been running a series of articles entitled "Generation Faithful" which examine the changing dynamics of youth culture in the Middle East.

With economic stagnation on the rise and with few credible political identities to which to turn, the articles conclude that many Middle Eastern youths are drawn to Islam as a means of coping with their individual and collective frustrations.

One article in particular highlights the Islamicization of young Egyptians, who are often forced by economic constraints to postpone marriage. In a society where marriage represents "the gateway to independence, sexual activity and societal respect", these kinds of delays are often unbearable for young men and women who are thirsting for autonomy, personhood - and each other. Enter religion.

Like Egypt, marriage is an exceedingly important marker of prestige and social stature in Iran. Yet as Iranian youth undergo the same economic and social frustrations as their Egyptian counterparts, they seem to be becoming less rather than more pious.

Undoubtedly, Iran's Islamic tradition and spirituality has deep roots. Ironically however, it appears to have been in the post-revolutionary era that young Iranians have begun to question the deeply entrenched institution of marriage and embrace new conceptualizations of sexuality and gender relations.

This may partly due to necessity. As in Egypt, the troubled Iranian economy cannot provide enough work for its young people, who represent around two thirds of Iran's total population. The age of marriage in contemporary Iran has soared from the pre-revolutionary era, when 18 was the average age of marriage for women; it is now 27. In one survey, 97 percent of Iranian youth stated economic constraints as their primary reason for postponing marriage.

But challenging traditional norms with regards to sex and gender may also be a means of venting political frustration. Since they are expected to follow a strict code of Islamic conduct in public places, Iranian youth seem increasingly determined to express defiance through their individual, private lives - including sexual activity.

Of course, there is no reliable data to confirm that sexual activity is on the rise (few would dare ask and even fewer would dare answer). But many observers agree that the shift in attitude towards sex and gender is palpable. Moreover, it does not seem to have escaped attention of the Iranian government. Last year, the Iranian government started actively promoting temporary marriage, or sigheh, as a way to solve Iran's "social problems".

Temporary marriage is a Shi'a custom endorsed in the Quran under Surah 4:24 and intended for sexual enjoyment (rather than pro-creation, like permanent marriage). The practiced died out in the Sunni community when it was outlawed by the Second Calif Umar in the 7^th century, but the ruling was considered illegitimate by Shi'a Muslims. Thus, the practice has continued, though it has traditionally been looked down upon by members of the Iranian middle and upper classes.

When a man and a woman enter into a temporary marriage contract, they specify the length of the relationship - which may range from one minute to ninety nine years - and the amount of financial compensation the woman receives. When the contract expires, the marriage automatically dissolves without divorce process. Children born of a temporary marriage are legally legitimate.

For the Islamic Republic, promoting temporary marriage is likely an effort to re-assert control over changing Iranian values. But will the policy stem the tide of change, or merely accelerate it?

Strong cultural taboos continue to militate against the use of temporary marriage, and some Iranian feminists condemn it for being little more than "thinly disguised prostitution". Even some religious scholars question the policy, which they believe will allow wealthy men to take advantage of economically disadvantaged girls.

But some women such as Shahla Sherkat, a prominent Iranian feminist, believe that temporary marriage could be a useful institution. Sherkat believes that as a result of temporary marriage "sexual relations will become freer, youth can satisfy sexual needs, sex will become depoliticized, our society's obsession with virginity will disappear."

If Sherkat is correct, temporary marriage will indeed be an interesting variable in the rapidly changing youth culture in Iran - especially for women. Indeed, it may allow youth with a legal way to bring their private lives in to the open, in a more direct affront to the Islamic Republic's rigid control of the public sphere.

The Edge of Heaven, directed by Fatih Akin, is a carefully crafted, tender account of six interwoven lives. Ali is a effervescent Turkish expatriate living in Germany with his bookish son Nejat. The film begins with Ali inviting Yeter, a Turkish prostitute, to become his live-in girlfriend - much to Nejat's dismay. Yet Nejat quickly gains respect for the grim but kind hearted Yeter and after her sudden death, he returns to Turkey to search for her daughter Ayten. Ayten meanwhile, is a defiant political activist desperately refuge in Germany after an encounter with the Turkish police. Penniless and homeless, she is taken in by a German student named Lotte and her disapproving mother. When Ayten's asylum plea is rejected, Lotte follows Ayten to Istanbul to help secure her release from prison.