reflections

One step at a time

Posted on by purplebolboreta

In the Camino you don’t advance always at the same speed. Some days you walk 30km and other days you walk just 15km. Then there’s the odd days in which you don’t walk at all.

Whatever the case, every day is important for they all add to the experience: with the longer walks you see the distance to the final objective, Santiago, shorten significantly, and you feel empowered by the might of your own body; the shorter journeys allow you to slow down your pace and to take a closer look at the surroundings, its inhabitants big and small, the people walking alongside and around you… You take it all in. You breathe it all in in deep big gulps.

The non-walking days though are probably the most precious, since you wouldn’t be able to walk at all without them; they make possible the continuation of the adventure ahead.

Every day is equally important in its own right, for they all give you something different. Obviously, there are better and worse days, terrible days and others which go perfectly fine. But it’s precisely the sum of them all that makes for the Camino the unforgettable, unregrettable, unparalleled whole experience that it is.

Arguably it’s due to its limited duration (about a month or so) that the appreciation of the pilgrim’s life is enhanced. But why don’t we aspire to perceive the events of our everyday life in equal terms? To accept our hectic days and our lazy days, our ups and our downs, as just necessary moments of our existence?

Eventually, we will get to where we need to go. We will reach the end of the journey sooner or later. Santiago is going nowhere. Neither is our end-day. What matters is what we make of the time it takes us to get there.

And every step, every second along the way it’s a meaningful part in the Camino that is our life.

The beginning of walking

Posted on by purplebolboreta

As someone who’s lived close to Santiago de Compostela most of her life, and who’s been there several times, why would I walk over 770km East to West across the whole country to get there? I used to ask myself that very question whenever foreigners, knowing I am from Galicia, the most Western point in Europe, inquired whether I had done “the Camino”.
Then, one day, amid a global pandemic and after 7 years of living with my back to that little piece of land where I come from and to everything that it has ever given me, this idea presented itself clear in my mind: I have to walk back.
And, just like that, my Long Way Home started, by putting one foot in front of the other.

The simple goal was to advance slowly —with my body but also with my heart— towards the roots that had once hold me and nurtured me, towards the people that had so many times seen me come and go but never stay long enough.
That was the idea, at least. But the Camino has its ways, and you might find along its course that your reasons for going in the first place are not the same reasons why you are actually there.

It is only now, a few days back into reality, that I’m starting to comprehend, if only slightly, bit by bit, as I relive my memories from the past 5 weeks of my life, all the things that the Camino was trying to tell me.
Simple things, truth to be told, that would be more common were not for the fast-rhythm stress-ridden societies we live in. Simple but easily forgotten things that we need to be reminded of (or become aware of) every now and then.

And so I walked to remember, and I walked to learn and to question.

The thing with the Camino is, it is only when you’re done with the walking that the real camino begins.

La playa no nos pertenece

Posted on by purplebolboreta

Pese a lo mucho que estoy disfrutando este periodo de mi vida en la zona de la costa amalfitana, no puedo ignorar la tristeza y el horror que me produce la transformación que ha experimentado la región desde hace poco más de un mes: las numerosas amplias playas del lugar, antes vacías y accesibles, están ahora cercadas y ocupadas en su totalidad por ringleras de tumbonas y sombrillas perfectamente alineadas que una debe alquilar si quiere gozar del privilegio de ir a la playa. Las hay quienes incluso reservan con un día de antelación, para garantizarse una buena tumbona en la línea de playa, entre el mar (más fresco) y el bar (mayor rapidez en el servicio de bebidas).

La idea de privatizar una playa, además de indignante, resulta del todo ridícula. Este paisaje de mar, arena y rocas, hogar de todo un ecosistema marino, es fruto de la mano paciente y generosa de la Naturaleza, motivo por el que debería ser objeto del debido aprecio, respetado y protegido como bien común (no exclusivamente humano). El hecho de que algunos individuos de nuestra especie lo hayan cerrado al público para tratar de enriquecerse a su costa —y que las autoridades locales lo permitan— tan sólo confirma lo infinito de la codicia humana, con su imparable onda destructiva, y cuán deshecho se encuentra nuestro vínculo con el mundo natural, al cual pertenecemos por mucho que nos esforcemos en fingir que no es así. Prueba de ello es que prefiramos sentir nuestra piel contra el plástico inerte, cocktail en mano, en un ambiente controlado y artificialmente organizado, a experimentar la naturaleza viva del entorno marino: jugar con los granos de arena entre nuestros dedos, sentir las gotas saladas que se evaporan al calor del sol, y la fuerza de las olas que arrastran nuestro cuerpo en el agua, caminar descalza por las formaciones rocosas (no libre de dolor), o dejar nuestras huellas por la franja de arena húmeda… todas ellas sensaciones que ninguna cantidad de dinero puede comprar.

Pero este paisaje de mobiliario plástico y simetría artificial en el medio natural muestra algo más que la codicia y la desnaturalización del entorno, es la imagen de la obstinación humana: la hostelería italiana se resiste a toda evidencia de cambio, y en su lugar se prepara para la llegada de turistas con el convencimiento de poder retomar su actividad habitual al cien por cien, como si nada hubiera sucedido. Y, en efecto, pese a que la amenaza del virus continúa al acecho, las turistas no se hacen de rogar. Son muchas las personas que se suben a un avión para escapar unos pocos días a la playa; su desesperación por tener vacaciones es tal que hasta parecen aceptar con alivio el tradicional impuesto revolucionario para turistas, ese que tasa con un coste excesivo todo producto turístico. Con o sin covid, las vacaciones continúan siendo el derecho inalienable de la clase media europea al que ninguna está dispuesta a renunciar. Tal y como sucedía en la “vieja normalidad”, satisfacer los deseos individuales está por encima de toda consideración social o ecológica sobre el impacto de nuestros actos. El turismo de masas ha vuelto.

Tantos meses de adaptación, tanto tiempo para la reflexión, y no parece que hayamos aprendido nada. Quizá no debería sorprenderme que así sea, pero esta vez, ingenua de mí, tenía mayores esperanzas en la especie humana. Al fin y al cabo, hemos sido partícipes de una demostración de solidaridad sin precedentes, al modificar nuestros estilos de vida para proteger tanto a seres queridos como a completas desconocidas por igual, lo que prueba nuestra capacidad de trabajar juntas por un bien común, de priorizar la persona a lo material. Además, se ha hecho evidente que el decrecimiento de nuestra actividad económica y el aumento de un modo de vida local permite una recuperación veloz de flora y fauna y reduce nuestra huella negativa en el planeta, hecho que debería llenarnos de esperanza, al tiempo que nos da pistas sobre las buenas prácticas para el futuro.

Por un instante, parecía que la vivencia conjunta de esta situación tan fuera de lo común estaba asentando las bases para una vida más comunitaria, basada en una ética del cuidado (de una misma, de otras, del planeta) por encima del individualismo destructivo. Pero basta un vistazo a la costa amalfitana, llena de gente de todas las nacionalidades, acomodada en una tumbona de pago, cocktail en mano, para comprobar con decepción que el modelo de mercado capitalista persiste, y que el egoísmo sigue guiando nuestro modo de vida. Business as usual.

Notes from my balcony

Posted on by purplebolboreta

In the South of Italy, during the warm months life unrolls mainly in the balconies, turning this suspended structure into the busiest living space of the house. Equipped with all sorts of gadgets and outdoor furniture, balconies become a window into the lives of its dwellers, from the teenage student who prepares for their exams to the smoking patriarch, the playing children or the dormant pets, a sketch of the rhythm of each family member is revealed to any neighbouring attentive eye.

During the months that my eyes have been part of this local landscape they like to pass time observing these comings and goings of people, spontaneous depictions of the Italian small-scale life. It is especially in the early mornings and late afternoons—the hours when the temperature is still bearable—that they regale with the activities of the most interesting beings who inhabit the balconies: the old ladies.

A short observation suffices to acknowledge that the Italian nonna—the grandmother, the matriarch—is the real owner of this setting. Here she takes notes of her surroundings, discerns the new and the old faces in the neighbourhood and ensures the stability of yet another day. Here she converses with other nonne to update each other on the most recent happenings, and small-talks with the nearby residents in a mutual daily recognition. Such brief exchanges often take the form of a particular sign language which unfolds as follows: the salute of a waving hand starts it off, then a sideways shaking hand answers that her state is so-so today, as it was yesterday, and as (she knows already) will be tomorrow, accompanied by a shrug of her shoulders that conveys resignation to this fact; on a third act, the most Italian gesture of all, the tips of the fingers touching each other with the hand facing upwards, which in this context signifies—I have come to understand—“what did you expect? That’s the way it is.” Like that, the conversation comes to an end. Tomorrow it will happen all over again.

In understanding this balcony code, one becomes aware that there is a covert liaison among these women, a network of sorts that provides comfort and support from the daily struggles, relief from the monotony of life, and that seems to be passed from the oldest inhabitants of the block to the next generations. For one careful observation tells of lives that, despite the age disparity, are condemned to a similar destiny: wide open balcony doors reveal kitchens in which women cook and clean while men eat, women sweep the floor and wash the dishes once the men are gone, women hang clothes of varied sizes that are clearly not their own, mothers and grandmothers look after the little ones of the house while they play outside… In essence, the presence of the women in the balconies is conditioned to the accomplishment of tasks. Among them, I am a rare specimen: a woman enjoying leisure time on the balcony; a foreigner.

Only the old ladies, retired but still responsible for the house work, have the benefit of dragging on a little while hanging the laundry, expectant to enjoy a little sunlight or the promise of a conversation. This is how I have managed to be somehow included in this circle of women, as an odd exception, born from the need to talk of my two neighbours, Signora Teresa and Signora Rosa, and their curiosity about my persona. Both of them, day and night to each other—one being the eternal pessimistic while the other is a ray of morning sun—, are deeply fascinating women who have lived through some of the roughest periods of their country (the War, the fascism and the post-war climate of insecurity and divide) and have nonetheless succeeded at providing for their families both through work and at home, while their respective husbands were mostly away.

Such an image is not unfamiliar to me: my very grandmother, when not older than I am today, was left alone for years with three children, my grandfather sailing away the seven seas to provide for them. Once I was around, her first granddaughter, I cannot remember a single occasion in which she was not finding any chore to do or someone to please, or rushing through the streets to go to the many precarious jobs she held in her old age, that were slowly robbing her of her health. Now, finally retired and with all the time in her hands, she continues to busy herself around the house, and she can often be found hanging the laundry in her garden or watering the many flowers and plants to which she tends. All those years, and still she is unable to dedicate a minute to herself. Probably, she wouldn’t know how to.

Despite their different nationalities, many are the similarities between the life my nonna and my two neighbours had—a life marked by scarcity that was especially hard on women, demanding too much of them and conceding too little—and continue to have: alone with their husbands, a waning health and unachieved dreams, they remain the care providers for their spouses and their common home, for their daughters and their grandchildren; the sempiternal backbone of the family life and the communal life. Had it not been for these women, the sweat and tears and blood they put in to carry through their difficult times, in a time when being a woman was the main hardship of all, I would not be here, in this balcony, calmly enjoying the summer breeze and receiving their tips for cooking pasta. None of us would.

How could we ever repay everything that they have done for us? Impossible. But maybe we could start by acknowledging and listening to their stories. Sometimes, just listening is enough proof of appreciation and respect. Listening says that we care, and after all the care we have received from them, this is the minimum we can offer them. But there’s more. From their experiences we can also learn everything that has changed for women since their time and everything that is left to be changed—as my observation of the surrounding balconies has shown. From her own balcony, Signora Rosa perfectly phrased it for me: “I have already done my part, now it’s on you.”

My body, my choice?

Posted on by purplebolboreta

There is no denying that the past year or so has put a strain on our lives both at a physical and mental level, although the latter still has not received its proper recognition due to enduring stigma and most people have instead focused on the physical realm, one whose effects they can more visibly perceive and suffer from. The popularity of at-home workouts during this period exemplifies the increased awareness of body care and need for movement that being confined to four walls has brought about. Seemingly, it took a pandemic for people to start appreciating their body and the independence that it provides, a realisation that has led some to condemn the measures put in place by the states: the imposition of a lockdown and a curfew or the limited assembly rights are, in their view, an attack against their freedom of choice and movement. Likewise, they reject the vaccine or taking any medical test for they consider them a physical intrusion of the state into their individual bodies. As I hear these complaints coming from the mouth of a bitter man who claims governments are putting us all under chains, I cannot help but wonder: will men finally understand what it is like to live in a female body?

State terrorism against the corporal experience is the everyday reality for women. From childhood to old age, there exists an ideal image of what a woman should look like at every single stage of her life that may vary from culture to culture, but whose overwhelming constraints and aggressive demands remain the same. In trying to emulate that imposed image, women all over the world modify, deform and cause harm to their own bodies, as they deem the original version not good enough. Indeed, low self-confidence and a feeling of self-hatred is the natural result of this regime of terror that does not allow women to be themselves nor to feel good about themselves, along with many associated medical conditions that may have fatal consequences; as long as there prevails in society one ideal of how a woman must be —and in this regard, media and popular culture are extremely efficient weapons for the perpetuation of stereotypes—, our bodies are cursed to suffer trying to find the balance between that irreal image and our real self.

Some may argue that men too are under similar pressure, and it is true that in recent years the social expectations for the masculine looks are getting more demanding. However, those men whose aspect differs from the ads are not openly rebuked in the same way women are; for us, every public appearance feels like a trial in which we will be severely judged by dozens of strangers. This is the reason why we obsess over our aspect, though perfectly aware that whichever it is, society will always find a demeaning term to define us: to their eyes a woman may be a tramp, fat-ass, slut, prude, sassy, tart, un-feminine… an endless string of adjectives that deny women a dimension in which we can simply be.

But the intrusion of others in our bodies is not limited to the external image, it goes way, way beyond. It’s ancient history that one of the traditional fights of feminist groups worldwide (and sadly still very much alive) is that for abortion rights. In defending the right of the life-to-be to be born, the so-called “pro-life” groups and the many sectors in society who condemn the woman are imposing a shared imaginary in which an unborn life is more precious than the already-alive being that is the woman; stripped of her agency, the aggravated woman is severed from her individuality and reduced to just her body, becoming a subject of value only insofar she is a container of new life, a mother, and never as a full-fledged life herself. On the opposite side of the spectrum we find the so-called family planning policies which, pretending to be applied on the population’s best interest and as a tool for women empowerment, have in reality been used by Western states as a mechanism to keep control over certain regions of economic interest by forcing sterilisation on thousands of women.

Voilà another way in which society takes control over the body of women: science. Disguised as medical know-how, women have been systematically subjected to shameful and irresponsible handling by those who are supposed to take better care of them. When it comes to the birth control pill, for instance, many doctors in Europe will prescribe this cocktail of hormones charged with hundreds of dangerous side-effects to most women as the normal contraception, without considering any alternatives, even to those whose hormonal levels are perfectly normal. Such was my case. And even though after a year of taking the pill I had not developed any symptoms, I decided to discontinue its use, not thanks to good medical advice, mind you, but because I simply did not feel like myself with all those extra unnecessary hormones in my system, an argument I doubt most men and male doctors are able to understand.

There’s no doubt that the birth control pill remains the preferred contraceptive method in privileged societies because it demands nothing from men, while it is the women and their bodies who are assuming all the risks. Unsurprisingly, throughout the history of medicine, countless are the examples of how unfounded ideas regarding the corporeality of women have been passed as scientific evidence for the convenience of men, as a means to subdue us and prevent us from participating in public life alongside them; time and time again these “facts” have been proven false, but not before whole generations of women had to suffer their tyranny. For instance, there are countless maladies whose symptoms for the xx individual are unknown or tacitly accepted to be the same than for the xy when such is not the case (the popular example being the heart attack as represented in films), resulting in higher risk of death and ill-treatment for the female population, which goes to show how often the diseases affecting us have been under-researched for lack of medical commitment to our different physiological experience, if recognised at all as an illness —we are all a bunch of hysterics after all. Similarly, menstruation (of which I have spoken widely) and pregnancy, two biological experiences that are integral to the condition of females only, remain a taboo in many cases and are filled with misinformation and secrecy, entailing consequences for women that compromise more than their health. One last outraging proof that I will mention is how women have been denied a sexual dimension (and desires) until very recently, and it is only thanks to feminist activists that research on the female sexuality and anatomy has been done to debunk the freudian conception of the deviated and masochist woman; until then, sexual pleasure was reserved for men.

The list of control mechanisms that society holds over the female body is endless, but the bottom line remains that women were under chains way before covid striked, deprived of bodily autonomy and the freedom to live and enjoy their physicality in their chosen way. Those who oppose the recent measures and perceive vaccination as a physical aggression are no martyrs nor rebels, they are just a crowd of selfish privileged individuals (and I dare say, mostly men) who wish to keep doing as they like without considering the well-being or integrity of others. If their fight actually was about the right to self-determination, where were they one year ago, two years ago, twenty… when women were rallying for this, putting their flesh on the line? For them it’s just a puncture and staying home at night, for us it’s every second of our existence that is threatened, constricted, surveilled. Before, meanwhile and probably after. They have no idea what lack of freedom means.

And they call us hysterics?