Hansard

International women’s day is a day for solidarity—a day to stand with women all over the world. It is a chance to reflect on the achievements and victories of past campaigns and to acknowledge how far we still have to go.

We know that women bear the brunt of social injustice and economic and environmental inequalities in Scotland and globally. Women live with the consequences of those inequalities every day. Women die because of the consequences of those inequalities every day.

It is right and appropriate that the motion recognises the impact of conflict on women and girls. We are all acutely aware that it does so in the context of not only the invasion of Ukraine, but the bitter genocide in Gaza, the on-going devastation of Yemen, and the often-forgotten refugee and humanitarian crisis in South Sudan.

There is much in the motion that deserves discussion, but I want to focus on two related issues: the Scottish Government’s commitment to a feminist approach to international relations and the need to amplify the voices of women and marginalised groups.

When we commit ourselves to a feminist approach, we also commit ourselves to asking exactly what that means in specific situations—especially situations of conflict. A feminist policy is, of course, an ethical policy, but it goes beyond that. It means being critical in the best sense of the word, asking difficult questions, developing rather than inheriting positions, and always being open to challenge. That challenge comes first and foremost from the experiences of those whose lives, hopes, homes and futures are directly affected by our actions and omissions.

A genuinely feminist foreign policy has particularly difficult questions to ask in relation to conflict. How far are political rather than solely military solutions being sought and progressive voices on all sides being supported? What role are women playing in peace negotiations? How effectively are combatants and civilians being distinguished, recalling not only the horrors of collective punishment but the dangers of forced universal conscription in creating and reinforcing gender binaries and prioritising technical competence over the minimisation of harm? Are we resisting the glorification of the military, including mobilised children? Are we exploring the ethical dilemmas of arms provision, sanctions and increasing military expenditure? How far is our policy mindful of the particular needs, rights and vulnerabilities of women and children, especially those who face intersecting oppressions and challenges? While showing solidarity with all victims of war, are we acknowledging colonial and political histories in which our own traditions may be complicit? Why are those considerations so often afterthoughts and luxuries, seemingly irrelevant to the important business of war?

Svetlana Alexievich, the Nobel prize-winning oral historian and activist, wrote in “The Unwomanly Face of War”:

“Everything we know about war we know with ‘a man’s voice.’ … When women speak, they have nothing or almost nothing of what we are used to reading and hearing about: how certain people heroically killed other people and won. Or lost. What equipment there was and which generals.

Women’s stories are different and about different things. ‘Women’s’ war has its own colors, its own smells, its own lighting, and its own range of feelings. Its own words. There are no heroes and incredible feats, there are simply people who are busy doing inhumanly human things.”

Women’s stories are of people doing human things. So, we come to my second focus, which is on amplifying voices—listening to those who can speak with truth but who may not be heard. I am conscious that, even in here, some voices are easier to hear than others—and that those who reach us at all are, to some extent, privileged. However, that is a reason not to close our ears but to listen more deeply—to understand more and understand better.

I will end by reading from the work of two contemporary women poets. The first piece, by Threa Almontaser, from “Operation Restoring Hope”, in “The Wild Fox of Yemen”, is:

“Death doesn’t choose who it favors. A missile does.

It might go for the last field of melons.
Or a front gate the uncles just painted, white
as bonefish, its tips reaching the lowest

heaven. It can choose the funeral, kill one hundred forty,
wound five hundred more.

There is no time for mourning. The people of Yemen are tossed
back into the cage, without ceremony.

It might choose the mountain
girl, a break in her brother’s shepherd stick
where the corpse fell.

Now she is the sister of ruin, knows what an eyeball does
when dazed, full of exile.”

The next, from “The State of —” by Lena Khalaf Tuffaha, part of a collection of Palestinian poetry in the Los Angeles Review of Books, is:

“Noun gerund of the verb (to journey)
A setting out, a departure
A boy’s voice calls out from beneath what used to be
the second story of a house
I am here he cries can anyone hear me?
I am here and the night sky is sleeping on my chest

Noun gerund of the verb (to leave)
An exodus, a detachment
A father has gone in search of bread
A baker has gone in search of flour
A mother has gone in search of a cloud
A people have gone
A world in each of them

Noun gerund of the verb (to travel)
A parting, a demise
A girl steps on top of the walls of what used to be
the third story of a house
I am searching for the sea she cries
Has anyone seen it? It used to live in my window.”