Labors of Love

The labors of protest, of resistance and of healing the world never end. even when we grow weary of it, or decide to break free for a while. They always come back to grab our attention and teach us a lesson in humility. They remind us, without reproach, that our actions in this world rarely yield one-of-a-kind creation, but rather, and series of repetitive actions, with no fame nor glamor, but that are nevertheless critical to our existence.

Housework never ends, I tell myself, as I open the oven door to bake the baguettes. Soon, the house will be filled with the unique fragrance of freshly baked bread, while I must clean the flour coated counter and scrape the sticky dough from the bowl. The breads are ready, fresh, and crunchy, holding the wonderful and simple taste of bread.

The housework never ends. The food is eaten, the sink is filled with dirty dishes, then the dishes are washed, the sink is empty, then full again. The clothes come out of dryer fragrant and soft, and then make their way back to the laundry bin. Dog hair and cat hair are all over the place; we sweep the floor, and they come back, rebellious, grey, and black, and white and auburn.

Housework is repetitive, and mostly transparent, like the people who perform them. I do not get paid to do them, and they never appear as part of the GDP.

Parenting is another labor that never ends. We change diapers, breast of bottle feed. We hold a baby in a slow and tired dance to the light of the moon, until blessed sleep comes, at least for a couple of hours. We softly blow on a fresh and sore cut, and gently touch a burning forehead. We follow – with a watchful eye – as they climb the merry go round for the first, fifth and a hundredth time. We keep a wakeful ear when they go out on a weekend night, waiting to hear the key in the door. Care work never ends.

Love is a labor that never ends. It is quotidian, made of endless forgotten and remembered moments. It is made of small gestures, birthday cakes and little post-it notes on the fridge. It is made of text messages about picking the kids up and grocery shopping, sometimes, with a little heart shaped emoji.  

Making a home is a labor that never ends. We notice spider webs in a far corner of the kitchen, or mildew that spread since winter. We notice the chaos in the drawers that we swore to deal with as soon as we have a moment to breathe.

Housework never ends, even when we grow weary of it, or decide to break free for a while. They always come back to grab our attention and teach us a lesson in humility. They remind us, without reproach, that our actions in this world rarely yield one-of-a-kind creation, but rather, and series of repetitive actions, with no fame nor glamor, but that are nevertheless critical to our existence.

Those labor of love and care, cleaning, and grooming, nourishing, and sustaining, never end.

Labors of Love

Healing the world never ends, nor does resistance to injustice. Sometimes it takes years for it to bear fruit. Sometimes we must work real hard just to maintain past gains. We take to the streets, time and time again, to mend new cracks and expose the dirt that built up in the unlit corners. We write petitions and position papers, we show up to committee hearing, we organize vigils, and post on social media and chase the papers to publish our op-eds. And the metaphorical sink is once again filled with dirty dishes that nee washing, and dirty laundry that requires airing, and silences that must be broken.

The labors of protest, of resistance and of healing the world never end. even when we grow weary of it, or decide to break free for a while. They always come back to grab our attention and teach us a lesson in humility. They remind us, without reproach, that our actions in this world rarely yield one-of-a-kind creation, but rather, and series of repetitive actions, with no fame nor glamor, but that are nevertheless critical to our existence.

Lockdown Guests

Fourth lockdown. Or maybe third. I lost count. But I went grocery shopping and bought essentials such as chocolate chips and wine. Since the pandemic erupted in March last year, I found that storytelling and baking help sustain me and fill me with hope. This week, I made hot chocolate cookies, coconut orange cake and homemade sesame rolls. I draw pleasure from rolling the sticky cookie dough and kneading the fragrant yeast mixture until it’s time to leave it be for a little.

Writing, on the other hand, does not come easy these days. Months of partial lockdown, full lockdown, breathing lockdown and tight lockdown have left their fingerprints on my soul. When your physical world is reduced to less than a square mile, your mind must go that extra mile to reach the comfort of the land of imagination, where travel is still possible. Yet, there are these moments of grace, while cooking and baking – the traditional chores of women in centuries – that set my spirit free. I lay down the hot baking pan and rush to my computer, to invite imaginary friends to a feast. They will have to do, my imaginary guests, until I am able to welcome family and friends once again into my home. 

Today, I have a wonderful guest, the Goodwife of Kittlerumpit[1], the protagonist of a Scottish folk tale, Whuppity Stoorie, a variant of the famous tale of “Rumpelstiltskin”.  

“A woman’s husband went to the fair and never returned; she was left alone with her baby son, her sole possession a single big sow. The sow was about to farrow, and she hoped for a good litter, but one day she went to the pen to find the sow dying. She was distraught, and a fairy woman asked what she would give her if she helped the sow. The woman promised the fairy anything she liked, so she saved the sow and demanded the baby. Though she would not listen to any pleas, she did tell the woman that under Fairy Law, she had to wait three days, and the woman could stop her by telling the fairy her name. The woman was distraught the first day, but the second, she went for a walk, and in the forest, she found a quarry where the fairy was spinning and singing that her name was Whuppity Stoorie.

When the fairy came the next day, the woman pleaded with her to take the sow, and then to take herself. The fairy scorned her, asking what she would want with such a woman, and the woman said she knows she is unworthy to even tie Whuppity Stoorie’s shoelaces. The fairy woman went screeching away”[2].

The goodwife of Kittlerumpit gets to keep her little boy and her sow. The evil threat has been removed, and hope is restored. The fairy, also referred to as the Green Lady in some versions, may have magic powers, but the woman, whose name remains unknown, is equally mighty.

Folk and fairy tales are filled with magic and supernatural figures, yet they’re stories about real people. They open a space for the plights and troubles of those marginalized by systems of oppression and exclusion. They are passed on from one generation onto the next, to celebrate and praise the wisdom and resourcefulness, the courage and creativity, the love and generosity of people. They also serve as a cautionary reminder of the evil, the cruelty and abuse of power that are unfortunately part and parcel of human nature.  

I love the Goodwife of Kittlerumpit and her story. She refuses to give in and musters the courage to wander into the forest in the middle of the night to find the answer to the riddle. Her love for her son and her passion for life are stronger than the indifferent, bureaucratic evil of the fairy.

So, the coconut-orange cake is ready, as are the hot chocolate cookies. When the Goodwife comes, we’ll have some tea, or wine, and drink to hope and the refusal to give in.

[1] In: Fearless Girls, Wise Women, and Beloved Sisters: Heroines in Folktales from Around the World: Kathleen Ragan. W. W. Norton Company, 2000.

[2] Whuppity Stoorie – Wikipedia

We All Need UNSCR 1325; Here’s Why

Why Do I Need – Indeed, We All Need – UNSC Resolution 1325?

For Hebrew Version of this post:

If the United Nations Security Council Resolution 1325 were a face cream or the next iPhone to roll out of Apple, a well-oiled publicity apparatus would already had let us know – hammering us with TV ads, billboards and pop-ups on social media – that we simply must have it, and not a moment sooner.

A famous beauty directs a knowing look right at us as she expounds on how, since she’s started using 1325 on a daily basis, she is feeling more present, more heard and more impactful. She would then offer us to be a part of the consumer experience, because “you too deserve 1325,” or, “with 1325 you are simply more,” or something to that effect.

But 1325 is not a brand. Far from it. It is a resolution made by the United Nations Security Council on women in violent conflict zones on October 31, 2000. It leaned on four core principles: active participation on the part of women in resolving violent conflicts, protecting women from violence that bleeds over from prolonged conflict, preventing escalation, and gender mainstreaming.

Have I lost you yet? Stick with me a while longer.

Yes, 1325 is not a brand. It is an administrative bunching of numbers that means little to most. And “gender mainstreaming” may sounds as exciting as having a whole grain rice cracker with marmite on it for dinner, at a time when many of us crave something warm, soft, and more importantly, comforting, to eat.

And without dismissing the importance of face cream, I need 1325 a lot more.

I need 1325 because it recognizes my knowledge and my experience.

I need 1325 because it acknowledges my experiences as a woman, and the way in which this unhinged reality influences myself, my family and my community.

I need 1325 because it decrees that peace and security are a woman’s business, and that women can contribute to achieving them.

I need 1325 so that no more committees, councils or cabinets be formed without the participation of half of the population.

I need 1325 because I’ve grown weary of hearing “this is an emergency, we’ll take care of women later.”

I need 1325 because I’m sick of lines like “Women? Why does it have to be women? I think the most qualified people should lead/decide/distribute our resources.” And the qualified, the wise, the experienced and the connected are, shockingly, almost always men.

I need 1325 so that slogans such as “This Country Needs A Mommy” or “We Need A Lead(h)er” would receive their full meaning.

The year is 2020, and Resolution 1325 just celebrated her twentieth birthday. No longer a child or a girl, but still very young, with big aspirations to make the world a better place for women and girls, and also men, boys and children.

The year is 2020 and we, here in Israel and all over the world, need 1325. This world needs all the virtues and qualities one usually attributes to women in order to sing their praises, so long as they are expressed within the household, or in private.

I need 1325. I need a stock market of worthy leadership qualities where prosperity will come to these qualities:

Politics of care and empathy

The ability to articulate an inspiring vision

A sense of purpose and responsibility

The ability to listen and analyze complex situations of uncertainty, instability and ambiguity

Compassion and determination

The ability to take counsel, to learn and make decision based on a collaborative process

These are hard times, truly. It seems as though reality is waterboarding us, and we find ourselves in a daily struggle to catch our breath.

And that is why we need 1325. Now, more than ever.

On Bread, Love and Aging in Times of Corona

There is something basic, comforting and filling about bread. I love baking, despite the gap that exists between my passion for it, and my delicate motorial skills. Somehow, my baked goods don’t always look like the perfectly shaped ones in the recipe. But our lives these days are captured in this gap between what we long for and what is possible. I am making Pretzel buns, but the dough is too soft and is running through my fingers, so I add love and yearning to it, to make it more consistent. I am thinking of my mother, 90-years old, and I still can’t think of her as an elderly woman. Yet, according to the dry statistics, she is defined as being at high risk of Corona infection, along with all the 60+ year old people. Some are lucky to see their family and grandchildren via Zoom or Skype, but what about those who do not have access to these technologies? Those who cannot even receive an emoji or sticker of a virtual hug?
I am thinking of them now. And since this post about bread, love and aging, I found just the perfect poem for it, by one of Israel’s greatest poets, Yehuda Amichai.

My mother baked the whole world for me/Yehuda Amichai
My mother baked the whole world for me
In sweet cakes.
My beloved filled my window
With raisins of stars.
And my yearnings closed inside me Like bubbles in a loaf of bread.
On the outside, I am smooth and quiet and brown.
The world loves me.
But my hair is sad as reeds in a drying swamp—
All the rare birds with beautiful plumage
Flee from me

Amichai, Yehuda. The Poetry of Yehuda Amichai (p. 4). Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Kindle Edition.

And here is the link to the recipe for Turkish flat bread:

Books and Bakes: Solace in Times of Corona

There is a bookshop in Jerusalem called “Sefer ve Sefel” (A Book and a Cup), a boutique store for used and new books. I haven’t been there in a while, but years ago I used to visit the place to buy books, read over a great cup of coffee and feel like I am in a world where good vanquishes evil. In these difficult times, when bad news slap us over the face on a daily basis, it is vital that we find sources of solace. When it feels like we have no control over what is going on in our world, and our mind is constantly struggling with horrific scenarios, it is critical that we practice self-care and nourish our loved ones; emotionally, spiritually and physically.
Stories, cooking and baking is the combination that works for me, for the time being. We have no way of knowing what tomorrow will bring, but I invite you to join me in sharing a few moments of comfort and a little skip to the world of stories.
And for the first chapter, I share with you a recipe for sinfully sweet Amsterdam cookies and an excerpt from Daniel Defoe’s novel, “Journal of the Year of the Plague”. If you really want to go overboard with the cookies, do what I did, and put some aside to make homemade ice cream patties that you can store in the fridge and have a bite when in need of the strong medicine of sweetness.

“It was about the beginning of September, 1664, that I, among the rest of my neighbours, heard in ordinary discourse that the plague was returned again in Holland; for it had been very violent there, and particularly at Amsterdam and Rotterdam, in the year 1663, whither, they say, it was brought, some said from Italy, others from the Levant, among some goods which were brought home by their Turkey fleet; others said it was brought from Candia; others from Cyprus. It mattered not from whence it came; but all agreed it was come into Holland again”

For the Amsterdam cookies recipe:

Defoe, Daniel. A Journal of the Plague Year, written by a citizen who continued all the while in London (p. 1). Kindle Edition.

In Praise of the Cup Half Empty

The story goes that a man decided to embark on an arduous journey to the home of a great sage, hoping he would bestow upon him some of his wisdom. And as journeys go, he braved valleys and ravines, took untrodden roads and bested the tallest mountain, on top of which stood the home of the great wiseman. And the day comes when the man finds himself standing at his door. It was open ajar and inside the modest home stood a simple table with a pitcher of water and a cup. The man walked over and poured himself some water, and as he was about to sip, he saw the great wiseman – white beard, cloak and all – standing by the door and observing him before turning away and leaving the house without uttering a word. The man left the house, found a nearby place to lay his head for the night, and on the next day he returned to the wiseman’s home. Once again, the door was wide open, the house empty and on the table were the pitcher and the cup. He poured himself a cupful and again the great wiseman appeared, cloak and beard and all, and again he turned away and left without speaking. And so it was the next day, and the one after. On the fifth day, the man came to the small house, but as he poured himself a cup, the great wiseman appeared again at the doorway. “Wait!” cried the man, “why do you turn away from me without saying a word? I came from afar, crossed valleys and ravines, climbed to the top of the mountain. Please, teach me all you know.” And the great wiseman pondered him for a moment, before he said, very softly: “You cannot pour water into a full cup.” Then he turned once again and walked away from the house.

This story fell into my hands as ripe fruit when I was chipping away in preparation for a workshop on organizational learning, and at the heart of a personal and professional journey of change. As folktales often do, this one appeared, on the face of it, very simple. Almost simplistic. But let us linger for a moment on its moral:

“You cannot pour water into a full cup.”

It says that in order to gain new knowledge, to rejuvenate and innovate, two things are required: To feel true thirst and to clear space. That is, to pour out from our full cup perceptions and habits that no longer serve us, in favor of knowledge, new ideas and modus operandi.

The discourse around learning and innovation is stuffed with cliches: “Think outside the box,” “leave your comfort zone,” and even the likeable “oh, the places you’ll go!”
One may snigger a bit at these cliches, but they point towards a truth that is best left said: Without renewal, we will stagnate and lapse.

It’s difficult to empty out our cup. Perhaps we’ve grown used to thinking of a full cup as a positive thing. The expression “See the glass half full” urges us to be thankful for the occupied space, as opposed to the empty space, which is perceived as a negative. But perhaps it is in the lacking and the vacant that real thirst lies.

It is also a hurdle because “old habits die hard” and oftentimes they’re tied to old wounds. Habits are old, comfortable slippers that are hard to let go.

It’s a challenge because true learning challenges wisdom and ideas we’ve held unto for many years.

It’s hard because at times this voyage of learning and reinvention passes through the twilight zone of feeling a little foolish. I remember to this day the look a clerk at the exchange students’ dorm rooms gave me when he said: “Yes, your French is substandard.” Something in me wanted to tell him that my French is likely to be better than his Hebrew, but it would’ve been pointless. In fact, he was right, as I had come to Paris in order to learn how to speak French. 

And of course, there is the matter of fear of failure. Innovation necessitates taking risks and dealing with defeat. Experts on the subject implore us to “embrace and celebrate” our failures  and learn from them, and yet, success is reveled in public, while failures tend to be a sour secret.

It’s difficult. That is why an occasional kick to the rump is needed to force us on a journey of regeneration, to give us that drive and courage to face the opposition, the unknown looming ominously overhead and the hardships that we’ll face along the path.

It’s difficult, because something in us rebels against the thought that the knowledge, experience and wisdom we’ve acquired through the sweat of our brow may be inadequate, or even irrelevant in an era where technology reinvents itself every day, changing the language, culture and the way we’ve grown accustomed to be. We’ve put time, resources and notable efforts to fill our cup, and now we must unlay it?

Let us return, for a moment, to our story. It is older than us all, yet still roams the world, apposite and alive as ever. Stories have always been a way to preserve and pass on knowledge, know-how and insight, experiences, emotions and epiphanies. They help us build communities, a path to plainly say that we are not alone in our trepidations and fears. A rallying cry that we will find, along the road, the gumption and strength needed to keep to it.

Don’t just dump out the water in your full cup. Turn it into stories. Tales of enlightenment and understanding, of triumphs and downfalls, of formative moments, of the highest peaks and the lowliest lows. Embrace them and share them generously with anyone in need of a good story. And remember to cherish the glass half empty, for it holds the thirst to embark on a new odyssey. 

The Storytelling Tools Chest: Vision and Path

Welcome to “the storytelling for change tools chest”. And today, a story to guide us towards our vision.
A vision is the picture of the future we strive to create; or, if you like, a story of that future. It is not always easy to tell the story of the future; we are too preoccupied with the present or haunted by our past. A vision is designed to inspire and move us forward, but sometimes the road leading to it is unknown and we are afraid to make the first step.
The Spanish poet Antonio Machado wrote:
Wayfarer, there is no way.
Make your way by going farther.
Here is the link to the poem, performed by Juan Manuel Serrat:

On Farewells

She is making a Pavlova for her family. She always does when she makes home-made mayonnaise so that the egg whites don’t go waste. She decides to make strawberry glaze, made from the ones she got fresh at the market for a reasonable price. As she rinses the strawberries and separates the plump ones from those only fit for cooking, she reflects on farewells.
It has been a year of farewells. She had to let go of her father who passed away and say goodbye to the position she held for some years. She places the strawberries and sugar in the food processor, fires it up to make a sweet puree. She ponders how easily sadness turns to stress and how difficult it is to simply let the deep melancholy engulfing her be. She pours the mash of fruit and sugar to a saucepan. Soon she will be lost in her own thoughts and the sticky fluid will boil and rise and stain the stove. She’ll have to clean it again.
The kitchen is a reflection of her mind. Strawberry leaves and syrup drops all over the counter. Her dog happily licks her pants as they patiently absorb the small spatters of Bolognese sauce. An organized spotless kitchen was never her strongest suit. What she lacks in order she compensates for in speed and agility and a stubborn defiance to get all worked up about the temporary mess.
But death is not a temporary mess. It is finite and continuous, persistently present. She cannot make her father’s death disappear with rigorous cleaning. As she wipes the stove, she clings to the memories. They obey and let her. The jokes that only he could tell; the tired and loving gaze he gave her each time she approached his hospital bed; his hand in hers on Saturday morning excursions; his inquisitive and empathetic voice as he gently sought to understand how her life came crumbling down so many years ago. She pours the heavy cream into the mixer and lets the pain make her body tremble with weeping.
She knows that soon she will decorate the Pavlova with fresh strawberries. But there is so much she doesn’t know yet. This is the nature of farewells; they engrave us with question marks and uncertainty. She is making a flower shape from strawberry slivers and wonders what she will do when she grows up, again.
There are no shortcuts. What a cliché. But in farewells, there really are none. They make their way through horror and shock and denial and anger and negotiations and only then comes acceptance and resignation. How lucky we are, she tells herself, that Elizabeth Kubler-Ross wisely outlined the stages of grief. A roadmap for the journey ahead, so that we know where we are even when we are lost and tempted to cut through a dark alley.
The Pavlova is ready, white and red like Snow White. She now tends to the other dishes. When she cooks, she likes to pretend that she is someone else; a good witch from some fairy tale, once upon a time, preparing potent potions made of love and hope and pain and fear.
Stepping down from a professional position is a different story, she tells herself as she slices garlic cloves. They perfume her fingers. Positions come and go, she keeps telling herself, as the mushrooms sizzle in the pan. She also knows it was much more than a position. That explains the vacancy that wakens her far too early in the morning. She was blessed to do the work of her heart. That is no mean feat, as the poem goes.
Soon her family will come. There will be joyous exchanges of hugs and kisses followed by the sadness of the absence of her father, who will not be joining them ever again. Together they will recall his presence with stories and photos. There he is, beaming with joy at her wedding; and there he is with the granddaughter in his arms; and there he is…
Do not disengage before it is time, she kept telling herself all these months. We deserve beautiful farewells, and if we run away from them, we will miss them.

Little Red Riding Hood 2017

She is baking donuts. The cozy kitchen is already filled with the scents of melted butter, vanilla and chocolate. She dips the warm pastry in sweet icing and lays them out carefully in a box. Soon little red riding hood will come along to carry this plentiful basket over to her grandmother’s.

She considers sprinkling the shiny chocolate frosting. Maybe it is too much. Her mother does not like sprinkles anyway. However, perhaps they would make her happy? They would please her daughter, who was still shameless in her affection to sweets.

She enters the kitchen, blushed cheeks and wayward curls gathered under a crimson shawl. ‘I’m ready’, she says. She wonders if she will ever be truly ready to send her daughter out into the world without her heart missing a few beats and have her thoughts haunted by nightmare scenarios.

She looks at her daughter, the girl-child that she is; her flowing mane of hair, her eyes, alight with a lilt of laughter. She leans in to kiss her cheek and she notices how tall she has gotten. Soon she will have discarded all the marks of childhood. She wonders if the child knows how much she wants to escort her or give her a ride.

‘Call me when you get to grandma’s house’, she says, trying to sound casual. She does not want to infect her daughter with her anxieties.

She reminds herself how important it is for them, her mother and daughter; grandma ad granddaughter, to have their time together. Just the two of them. She sends her child off and returns to scraping chocolate drippings off the counter.

But her child already knows fear. She knows fear of strangers and penetrating gazes and dark streets. She was born into a world where little girls and boys are afraid.

The kitchen is spotless and the child has not called to say she has arrived safely at grandma’s.  She decides to write in an attempt to fend off the anxiety welling up inside her. ‘Perhaps I’ll call my mother’, she thinks, ‘To ask if she liked the little cakes I sent’. She does not want to upset her mother. One worrisome woman is more than enough.

Then the phone rings. A sigh of relief. She picks up, trying to sound casual. ‘Mommy, I am about to cross the park. Can you just talk to me until I reach grandma’s house?’

So she talks to her and watches over her with her voice, and she wonders if that would be enough to fend off even the most ravenous of wolves. She hears her urging her steps through the semi dark park and then the gate creaks and the door opens. She hear her mother, the granny child ith the silver-kissed hair, embracing her grandchild in her arms.

The wolf has been left out of this story. Until the next time.

A wise young man asked me, ‘Why do we pick on the wolves? How did it come to be that the wolf is a source of fear to children and a metaphor to sexual aggressors?’

However, the tale of Little Red Riding Hood is, of course, a parable. The wolf is a symbol of all the perils that stalk children with a curious and adventurous streak. The written versions of the story put on paper by the Brothers Grimm in Germany and Charles Perrault in France were “cautionary tales” meant to educate children – and especially girls – to show obedience. In their versions, Little Red is severely punished for disobeying her mother – who told her walk straight and stay on the path. She is penalized for addressing her natural curiosity, simply by exploring the woods and picking flowers. These versions send a clear message that curiosity and disobedience are adverse qualities in a child, meant to be condemned. Qualities that lead to your death or to be rescued from the belly of the wicked beast by a valiant hunter, a stark agent of the patriarchy.

The lesson illustrated at the conclusion of the version written by Perrault in 17th century France, highlights the intimidating message of the tale, especially when it comes to pretty, polite and educated little girls, how should know better than to talk to strangers:

“From the story one learns that children,

Especially young lasses,

Pretty, courteous and well bred,

Are wrong to listen to any sort of men”

This is a horrific message, one that points a finger at the victim and spares the offender. This European-bourgeois moralité does not condemn the wolf for abusing and breaking the trust that Little Red put in him, but it condemns Little Red Riding Hood for trusting him. This lesson turns the classic story into a tool that preserves the status quo, which accepts the existence of prowlers, in the form of ‘This is way of the world and the wolf’. This twisted message prevails far beyond the dog-eared pages of folk and fairy tales books. It is alive and kicking to this very day. Just recently, we heard comments by certain men, eager to support their colleagues who have been accused of sexual harassment and assault, casually saying, ‘What did she think was going to happen up there?’, or in other words, if you agree to meet with a man who is your senior in the workplace, it should be clear to you that he will try to force himself on you sexually. Why otherwise, would he have any interest in meeting with you?

We can and should tell Little Red Riding Hood’s tale differently. Feminist scholars of folklore and myth such as Maria Tatar and Cristina Bacchilega located earlier versions of the tale from the oral tradition of storytelling, ones that passed from generation to generation and were told by women to women and girls. These versions were “initiatory tales”, meant to mentor and prepare girls for adulthood. To prepare, not in the sense of warning them of healthy qualities such as curiosity and adventurousness, but by imparting an empowering message that says:

‘You have the resilience, the strength and the wisdom to cope with the challenges and perils of adolescence”. .

These versions present Little Red as a brave and resourceful girl, one that, in a joint act of feminine solidarity with her grandmother, outwits the wolf. These formative versions convey an entirely different idea, one the emphasizes Little Red Riding Hood’s ’s agency as a character and her capacity for healthy curiosity, along with the ability to handle the repercussions of that curiosity. As Cristina Bacchilega claims:

‘As an initiatory tale in the oral tradition, ‘Red Riding Hood’ did more than symbolize the child’s ability to defeat danger and evil by resorting to cunning: it also demonstrates the woman’s knowledge to survival’.

The world is full of boys and girls, men and women with stories of fearful encounters in the woods with an insatiable wolf, to him they were nothing but an object; a thing to quell his hunger, boredom or need for ruthless dominance. The world is full of people who live in fear of the wolves in their own family, workplace or community. These wolves will persist to roam amongst us and terrorize so long as we keep telling stories whose moral is ‘The fault lies with the prey’, because they ventured out to the woods, showed an interest in the world around them or trusted someone who was not supposed to harm them. It is  time to tell stories that will chase away the darkness of the forest and make it into a safe space. Innumerable brilliant lights that will expose the true wolves. Millions of stories that let out a stark cry: No one’s ventures into the woods to be devoured. It is our responsibility as a society to make our private and public spaces truly inclusive and safe.