where I come from

When I was about seven years old (maybe younger maybe older)

the village where I was born

disappeared under a grey, boiling mixture of volcanic ashes and mud

I wasn't there

but ever since I have used that story to explain to myself my feelings of not belonging...

this kind of displacement of the soul

I have been a nomad since I was two years old

divided between two forces...

the desire to fit in and having long friendships as old as myself

and the necessity of being in constant movement

being a gypsy like one of my great-grandmothers

That's why when someone asks me where I am from

I always answer with a riddle...

a net of comes and goes connecting different cities and houses

leaving a lot of loose ends

I have never felt a connection with a particular territory

every little town, every city where I lived is part of my personal mapamundi

but although I am not sure of where I am from

I have always know from where I come from

I was dreamed and nested at my mother's womb...

I came to this world wrapped in her red tissue

my first dreams were lulled by

the music of the blood rushing through her veins

and the beat of her heart 

It didn't matter where I was

How far or how lost I was

how many oceans I had to cross

I always knew where my motherland was

This week my mom felt ill

I don't know what is going to happen

I only know two things

that love and life are built every little day

and that I will always know from where I come from

...in my own skin?

I know, I know...
Talking about women and body image can be considered a feminist cliché
furthermore, being confy in her own skin has different meanings for each woman
even today, for me it is difficult to speak about my body.

I don't know if I am finally comfortable in my own skin
some days I think I am...
other days I eat a piece of chocolate feeling terribly guilty...
looking at the mirror reflection with horror

I have read loads of feminist theory on women and the body
thus I can theorise to some extent my body image troubles
But then I wonder, do I really have a trouble?
Well it seems I have...
every-time I go out someone is trying to sell me something to help me to be a 'normal' woman
A girlde to hide all the 'extra-flesh', push up my bottom and make my boobs look bigger;
creams, milkshakes, massages, and miracle mud will help me to lose weight;
the newspaper's health section is full of articles about dieting and body makeover, more appropriate for a beauty clinic's publicity leaflet than for the 'women's issues' section.

Some times I have wondered if all this women's body incarceration is related with the armed conflict and the militarisation of everyday life that is going on in the country.
In the Colombian conflict women's bodies are not only used as 'comfort for the warriors', they are also objects that can be disposed, bough, raped, killed, dismembered... territories to be conquered, controlled, transformed (through cosmetic surgery, creams or girdles).
It isn't by chance that all the armed groups had used sexual violence against Colombian women and girls systematically as weapon of war (Different women's and feminist organisations have denounced it. For instance, last week the Mesa Mujer y Conflicto Armado launched the 10th report on Sociopolitical violence against women and girls in Colombia http://www.mujeryconflictoarmado.org).

I may be wrong...
but I really think that this overcontrol of women bodies... on the telly, the newspapers, the radio, the magazines, everyday street's advertising... is closely related with the armed conflict and the militarisation of the country.
I can't compare myself with the women and girls that have been victims of sexual violence (perpetrated by the guerillas, the paramilitaries, drug-dealers, and the army), and are still longing for justice, too afraid to denounce their attackers, or to speak about their experience, because they are fearful of retaliation and public 'shame'.
But I can say that I have experienced in my own skin how the image of women's bodies as objects of little value is fostered by the armed conflict, the narco-culture, and the militarisation of Colombia's everyday life.
I know, I know
Body image, armed conflict and sexual violence
what a cliché!!!

Home is not a place

I carried my home on my back for over two years and a half
I settled down, moved again, get a new place and moved again...
Then I started little rituals,
wine and jazz with friends,
dancing until death once a month at payback night
I even felt in love....

Four months ago I came back 'home' to Bogotá
only to find a small box with my favourite books,
some beloved objects, my old diaries
a collection of postcards and old photos...
unmaching clothes, abandoned brushes.
On my backpack I was carrying pretty much the same.

Almost all my friends are gone or live in a different city.
Now I drink my morning coffee alone
black, not sugar, and without mr handsome smiling over it

In my new house I have some borrowed furniture
curtains that don't match (and I don't like)
books and more books
my petit frere
and a luminous place surrounded by trees where I am a stranger

But I know that home is not a place...
It is a quality in the light
a smell...
it is the morning coffee served in my favourite mug
it is a kiss from my petit frere
it is that open book next to my bed
it is the dog I miss...
Yes, home is not a place
and now I am building it again
from little pieces that doesn't mach because some of them went missing