—The Black Book of Patriarchy—

The Black Book of Patriarchy

full content: bit.ly/blackbookofpatriarchy

'Do you know what patriarchy is?'
'Are you affected by it?'
'Are you victimized?'

Patriarchy is a culture where hierarchical relation puts men and masculinity above women. 
Patriarchy results in discrimination, oppression, objectification, stereotypes, and many others.

Raras and I created this project for Peace Studies class, bringing forward patriarchy as its theme.  Through this scrapbook, we want to capture patriarchy—a big narrative—from a more personal point of view to show just how patriarchy affects many different people in many different ways. Some becomes a direct victim, some are stuck in the paradigm of patriarchy as cultural and structural violence. Not only women, but also men could be victimized. We are trying to make more people understand how the term feminism and gender equality does not mean putting women above men, but rather, promoting the values of equality all human beings deserve.

For this project, we interviewed 14 students of IR UGM and remodeled some of their stories through poems and prose. Enjoy this project and spread the awareness.

With peace,
Heidira & Raras🌹
.
also check out this instagram page compiling our classmates' projects of peace: @damai.hiugm ✨ 

Rain: (Not) A Romanticization

 

You know how much I hate the rain, but it wasn’t always the case. You see, we are not born with a hate for something, with a love for something. I have always been captivated with the way strange, seemingly unrelated experiences are keychains that will forever intermingle in our lives. This is me, and the rain.

I remembered sitting shotgun through the streets of Strathpine neighborhood, the rain is heavy pelts against the windowglass. We were on our way to a bookstore, and once we arrived, we tumbled out of the car like pearls, laughing like maniacs. I don’t recall the name of the store, but I did remember the warmth of the shopkeeper lady’s smile, commenting on our state of drenched. Three surrogate sisters living shortlived life on a new continent, limited days of first-world privilege. I was so happy back then, hoping I could live this life that was never mine.

Dragging the reel of time way back, rain meant jumping puddles with my sister and mindlessly listening to my mother’s scolds with a hint of exasperated joy in her voice. Rain meant cuddled up in my blanket, a book in hand—safe and warm in my private world. Rain meant sitting together in front of the TV, not really caring what was on because we were all together, anyway.

Rain meant mundane but wholesomely special conversation on a borrowed balcony and on a borrowed time, with a first love I held dear. Touching our socks-covered feet together, as lightning and thunders splitted the sky. Rain meant an excuse not to never ever ever leave, wishing that we could stay like that forever and ever and ever. Rain was, as cliche as it sounds, also a metaphor of a clean slate, a new beginning as wafting petrichor signaled the start. Of days start anew.

It was then and this is now.

I can’t shake up this feeling of discomfort when those godforsaken droplets of water break out of the clouds. The dread of being trapped with the rain around me is a fuel for me to retreat. I don’t know what changed, maybe it is the unfamiliarity of my surroundings, my lack of safe space, or merely a change in my mind. Rain is an inconvenience—holding me back, holding me out. Rain is an archenemy to my immune system, always has been weak since day one, what a sickly little girl. Rain makes me agitated, helplessly seeking for a feeling that I cannot decipher, clawing thin air for an answer. Rain brings out what I hate in myself, irrational fear of being lonely without a cure, making me feel too much it's overwhelming and please please make it stop.

I despise the rain, because maybe as time goes by, I began to resent my so-called first love that turned to be an utter dipshit of a one-sided heartbreak. I loathe the rain, because maybe I had realized that the dreams I wanted for myself are not always in tune with the truth. Rain is no longer a metaphor, it is just another reality in this very, very, real life. And I don't think I've made peace with it all.


*

Hurricane Heart

—hurricane heart


for those who do not give up and conform.
darling, you are a force to be reckoned with.

for every time you have been silenced,
for every question left unanswered,
adds fuel to your fire.
because, darling, you are blessed with such sleepless rage.

stink eye and scathing chides saying you will not fit in to this world we live in,
darling, you should be grateful then—
you are not to be fooled nor tamed by the mundane reality.
you are infinite; in your bones is the universe itself.

your voice is the calm before a storm,
a gentle timidity concealing millions of accusations.
burning in your veins are the spirit of the restless youth,
one that dreams, desires, wonders.
one that never, ever, ever settle.

thus, next time somebody tells you to sit tight and be quiet,
show them you're a hurricane.

❤

violent flesh

--violent flesh

i look down at my hands,

and imagine that

these same appendages

so mundane in me,

has been used

by another

to inflict pain

and draw scars

on another

until these same appendages

are drenched in blood

of another;

and then I ask,

we’re all humans,

what differs? 

i want to write a poem

i want to write a poem.
to paint a picture in words,
so you know the colors of leaves falling to my feet in my journey getting to you.

i want to write a poem,
to pour my soul out, letting it break the prison they call reality
letting it soar to you.

i want to write a poem,
because i know you like them, despite your constant whining of them being cheesy
-- hey, don't think i didn't catch you wiping the corner of your eye the other day.

i want to write a poem,
to embody my tears, my silent screams,
of love long gone and life long lost.

i want to write a poem,
of you,
for you.
always.

i want to write a poem,
but all i can think about is how your crinkled laughing eye
and the strands of purple in your hair blowing in the autumn wind

i want to write a poem,
but all i can remember is how you promised that you will stay
but you didn't
and i cannot forget.

i want to write a poem,
but you're not here and im all alone
and nobody gives a fuck about my poems anymore

i want to write a poem,
but i can't find heaven's postal code.




*
Picture taken from my dorm room's window.

perpetual gloom

i'm tired with these voices inside my head;

don't leave me alone with only my thought as a company,

it nearly killed me last night.

clairvoyant claire

Her name was Claire and her eyes were crystals.
I noticed her at the front of the lecture hall.
Always at the very first row, ahead of us all
I wondered if she tried to get ahead of life, too

She was pretty, 

With that kind of a fragile build and aristocratic face

I never saw her talk to anyone,
Or even voicing up her answer during classes.
I wondered if she was too much of a snob.
I wondered why I gave it so much thought.

And then I found out she was mute.
The problem with the major percentage of the population, I realized.
Quick to judge, clouded by distrust and disdain

Assuming the worst of things
And seeing what we want to believe.

But not Claire.

She saw the beauty in life, the good in people.
She fed hungry, dirty stray dogs 

Looked after forgotten, lonely people in the streets.
They would then look her in the eye, gratitude reverberating like warmth on a sunny day
Then I thought to myself, 

Funny how the sincerest of things are not conveyed through vocal chords.

I wondered if she was heaven reincarnate.

Or just an angel sent to make me a better being.

I could write sonnets about the clairvoyant Claire.
How she seemed to see through masquerades and façade.
I might won a Pulitzer if I could perfectly capture her presence in strings of sentences.
How she made colors a little more vibrant, confections a little more sweeter. 

And life truly worth living.

She had perfected the arts of a language of her own.
In the way she savored every drop of rain when she twirled under the pour,
In the little gestures she made, each telling a story if only you'd bother to see.
And in the way she laughed inaudibly with crinkles around her eyes

That night we were stargazing.
Featherlight touch of her fingertips traced circles on my wrist.
Then she interlaced our fingers, interlinked our dreams, interlocked our fate.
And in moments like these, I was soaring and infinite.
Definitely infinite.

She was dictionary of expressions.
She was litany of vivacity.
She was technicolor in a monochrome world.
She was poetry when the world was still learning alphabets.

**

H,

November 2015

posted here with several edits

The Dawn of Freedom

Up above the cloudless sky, it was pale red.
Wherever he stepped, it was always in this prison of the soul.
Cries and screams echoed, trickling blood didn’t stop.
So he wondered where humanity is. 
It was the dawn of misery.

It was dawn when he lit his fire of faith
And he collected his scattered courage
So he wandered, believing to see the Land of Freedom
It was the dawn of the rising hopes.

He ran, and ran, and ran, and never once looked back.
And his throat was burning and his legs were weak
So he crawled his way in the path of thirsty sands
It was the dawn of burning air.

He passed countless dawns, noons, and nights
The day before today seemed far, far behind
And what left were only blurry footsteps, those swallowed by the dust
Then he set his jaw, there will be none stopping him.
It was the dawn of the new spirits.

It was also dawn when he saw those promising gates, 
In the further south of the horizon
There, there! There it was, the Land of Freedom!
And he could feel the tears, clouding his vision.
It was the dawn of satisfaction.

But it wasn’t dawn when he crouched down in the soft grass, 
It wasn’t dawn when he stepped his feet in the land of his dreams.
His breath was shallow, his pulse quickened like a lightning speed.
But he smiled, and his eyes fluttered close from happiness.

Cause he know, tomorrow will be the dawn of freedom. His freedom. 

Heidira, 5th of September'12

it's not alright yet.

Kau tahu, ini tidak baik-baik saja. Ini belum baik-baik saja.

Tapi,
Ya, ya. Mari bersulang.

Untuk harapan yang pupus,
Untuk impian yang tak tertembus.
Untuk sebutir mimpi yang terdepak,
Untuk usaha yang jalah telak.
Untuk kemungkinan yang tak terjadi,
Kesempatan yang terlewati.
Untuk ego yang sirna,
Hati yang terluka.

Namun pada akhirnya,
Meski telah habis penyesalan,
Akan selalu ada perih tersisa.
Mungkin takkan dimengerti oleh kalian.

Dan, tentu saja,
Akan timbul pertanyaan, keraguan,
Bisakah aku mencoba lagi?

Karena ada suara kecil dibalik logika,

aku ingin kesempatan yang lain.

:)

When hope scattered under an atmosphere of terrors,
And no one believes in you anymore,
Will you stop trying?

When you feel like nothing's alright,
And no sign of success,
Will you step back?

When people turn their back from you,
And eave you outside under the cold moonlight,
Will you crouch down in fear?

Just remember,
If no one believes in you, don't worry. You always have something to believe.
If there's no sign of success, don't be scared. You can always hope for a miracle.
And if  everyone else avoid you, Hey, you could lean on me.

:--)

When Will This Stop

I thought I heard a melody

I could not recognize it,

But it was a melancholic rhapsody

Reminds me of what happened here

This place used to be peaceful and serene

With cheerful kids and loving families

But now, look, look what this place had turn into

Playgrounds had turn into cemeteries

Ponds seemed like a pool of blood.

I remembered seeing  red, thick liquid flows from death bodies

I remembered hearing people’s agonizing screams,

Begging to be saved, thus they can carry on their lives.

There’s no more smile and happiness left

Only screams, wounds, hunger, and tears

There’s no sound of laugh

Only blaring gunshot and detonators

Leading civilians to their graves

Families scattered; fathers go to the battlefield,

Mothers hunt for utilities

Children crouch down in fear and trauma, terrified.

Is this what we called ‘World’?

I kept asking myself the same riddle I never could answer,

‘Why does war have to happen?’

I’m tired of seeing so many deaths

I couldn’t stand in this warfare

We didn’t need strong warriors,

We didn’t ask for an invincible hero

We wanted peace, we needed peace.

And yet I’m still wondering, when will this stop?

-Heidira Witri Handayani

aku ingin

Kadangkala aku berpikir

Mengapa orang menuntutku menjadi ‘mereka’ 

Yang berdiri bangga berkalungkan medali 

Yang duduk manis bergelimang harta 

Atau yang mempesona tatapan mata 

Bukan aku tak mau semua itu 

Bukan aku tak peduli 

Aku hanya ingin mencari diri sendiri 

Ini hidupku, ini jalanku, ini caraku. 

Aku ingin berlari  Mengejar ilusi mimpi 

Melambung dengan akselerasi 

Menembus tapal batas kemampuan 

Melintasi palung harapan

Aku ingin melayang

Melompati batas masuk akal

Meresapi fatamorgana hidup

Menyingkap misteri dunia

Aku ingin petualangan
Aku butuh tantangan
Aku tak mau bermain aman

Tak bisakah kau rasakan?
Api membara dalam jiwaku
Membakar detak jantung tuk bebas
Memompa darah tuk berontak

Aku bukan penakluk marabahaya,
Sama sekali bukan penantang maut
Tapi aku tentu bukan anak manja penanti takdir

Aku hanyalah diriku sendiri
Hidup akan mimpi, dalam bayang imajinasi
Aku hanyalah diriku sendiri
Tidak kurang, tidak lebih

Dan bagiku, itu lebih baik dari menjadi imitasi.

-heidira witri handayani.