What would happen if, in a novel, a woman became a subject instead of a sexual object? What would happen if she was given the freedom to act without explanation, accorded the independence and power of action reserved for men for so long?
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I thought about conversations around white feminism, its myopia and elitism, about the weaponisation of white women’s tears, eliciting sympathy and avoiding accountability. I thought about May’s legacy.
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Over time, I’ve grown resentful of metaphors tying fascism to spectres. The ghosts of fascism. Il fantasma del fascismo. I hate the immateriality and elegance ghosts suggest, the haunted house charm.
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I see the blindness around me growing again, I notice how women’s rights are being taken away, how Ustasha and Chetnik crimes from WWII are being relativized, how history is distorted in the name of religion and patriotism.
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Do you ever feel that the things you used to believe in are disintegrating before your very eyes? That belief systems turn out to be fake, or flawed? Do you ever feel as if you are living in a world where people put blind faith into ideas that are bound to disappoint them?
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‘Charismatic and powerful men, at least in our societies, see their role as looking after their own interests rather than serving others. That’s how it is, and more and more so as neoliberalism takes hold of our governments.’
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