Phantom of Fury

Hauntings of War crimes, International Women’s Day, and Feminine Rage

Railay Beach from a few years ago when the world was not torn by wars. I miss the sense of thrill and danger of an approaching storm lurking in those grey clouds above.

Namaste Readers,

Today's post is a bit special because I'm doing something I've never done before—I'm sharing my very first voice memo with you all. It's been quite the journey getting this ready for you. I've spent hours editing and perfecting it, trying to capture the essence of the poetry prose that I recited. But, I have to admit, despite all the effort, there are still some flaws, and let's just say, my awkwardness shines through a bit. But hey, we're all friends here, right? So let's dive in together and embrace the imperfections. After all, that's what makes us human!

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Since the onset of the conflict in Eastern Europe, the world has plunged into a deeper crisis with each passing hour of our human existence. The pursuit of peace seems to be sidelined as powerful men are eager to demonstrate their military might and employ strategies of war, symbolizing masculine strength. Reports flood in from Ukraine, Gaza, Sudan, and Haiti, each grappling with extensive humanitarian crises. Unthinkable war crimes are occurring across these nations. People are being displaced, subjected to torture, and killed; children are perishing due to starvation and lack of medical assistance. This is our world, torn into pieces by the assertion of masculinity—by those who believe that gunpowder can cleanse stains of old rivalries. They have chosen to spill the blood of innocent people in pursuit of their ideological gratification. This is who we are as a species: destroyers of the world, tasting power from the same platter that serves the severed heads of young children, women, and other marginalized and vulnerable people.

There is a balance in this world that is often undervalued. A force of nature that nourishes, a faint recognition, a cry from within that hears the cacophony of ego and is tired of it. The numen speaks to us through the uttered hushes passing through the wind, the quiet subconscious that lingers but never resolves, that exists but never defines. In the draft of my book, I have tried addressing this unnamable presence as a suspension of a force, inevitably present but barely noticeable. It is more of an absence than a presence, the dark, the mystical, and the negative aspect of this world - the Yin, the crevices, the receptive, the absorbent. The feminine is submerged, isolated, obliterated from the memories of the collective as the masculine debilitates the balance. It is only in the cosmic dance with the feminine, that the masculine can fulfill its destiny of stability and order. The yang of the water needs the yin of the bowl to keep the water in place. In the destruction of the bowl, the water loses its usefulness.

These past few weeks have left me restless, ensnared not only by my personal storms but also by the struggles to comprehend the state of the world. Recently, I came across news detailing extreme war crimes against women and girls, a painful reminder of the harsh reality surrounding my gender. Throughout history, femininity has often been equated with weakness, depicted in fragile and delicate terms. A woman is often relegated to the status of a second-class citizen within her own country. A woman has no country. She becomes a pawn in the hands of men, society, and governments, merely a commodity to settle bets. When men lose, she becomes the price they pay—a vessel for sacrilege, humiliation, and desecration.

She is more than just flesh draped over bones, pulsating with the fervent desire to exist. She a dormant repository of dreams, awaiting discovery. However, she is often reduced to final remnant of a man's honor and privilege, the embodiment of his pride and an extension of his ego. Society relentlessly imposes upon her the notion that if she fails to embody these ideals, she is nothing.

I have been made to feel ashamed of my femininity, pressured to suppress my desire to assert, express, and respond to my circumstances as I see fit. If in a supposedly free country I can be made to feel less than human simply because I am a woman, I cannot fathom the horrors of being a woman in a nation gripped by hatred and war. Throughout history, women and children have borne the brunt of most war crimes committed worldwide. They are the primary targets of the atrocities unleashed upon regions ravaged by armed conflict, often subjected to heinous acts such as gang rapes, sexual slavery, and other forms of sexual violence.

Pramila Patten, Special Representative of the Secretary-General on Sexual Violence in Conflict at the UN, said, 'Every new wave of warfare brings with it a rising tide of human tragedy, including new waves of war’s oldest, most silenced, and least condemned crime.' In her experience, military rules are, in essence, a manifestation of the most problematic and oppressive aspects of patriarchy, which designates women as 'the other' in comparison to men, who are viewed as the frontline warriors and hence as more primary citizens.

I am currently working on an essay that delves into the nuances of certain feminine experiences as an Indian woman. However, I find myself constantly distracted by the unfolding horrors across the world. These atrocities persist whether we confront them directly or allow them to fade into the shadows of our attention-driven economy. The looming sense of impending doom surrounds us, regardless of whether we acknowledge it.

The indifferent attitude of the world ignites a rage within me that is difficult to comprehend. In an attempt to find solace and guidance, I turned to my own work, seeking courage and wisdom in my reflections on anger—a sentiment that, to this day, remains one of the most suppressed feminine emotions.

Below is an excerpt from the draft of my unpublished book. I have made a decision to exclusively publish it here at Berkana. This meditation resonates with prophetic truth, particularly given the times we live in. Additionally, considering we recently celebrated International Women’s Day, it feels especially relevant. I'm not concerned if future publishers choose to reject my manuscript because a part of it has been published online already. I'm tired of the gatekeepers and their corrupt structures that seek to monopolize everything, including wisdom. I am tired of the misogynistic tools of separation deviously devised to separate our circles. Preventing women from gathering around the fire and telling our stories is a tactic to keep us invisible. I reject these rules and structures. I'm publishing a portion of my unpublished manuscript as an act of rebellion, a cry to my sisters, a beacon of truth resonating across generations of women—to assure them that they are seen and heard. It feels right to share it now, and so I will.

The excerpt serves as an introduction to the chapter titled ‘Dark Mother’, a meditation on goddess Kali and the consequences of awakening her. It's an invocation of the destructive energy embodied by Kali, symbolizing the necessity of destroying old ways to allow new growth to take root. Kali represents the ‘Dark Mother’ or ‘Devouring Mother’ archetype, embodying the anger of the feminine force capable of both nurturing and destruction.

The Earth itself harbors a shadow mother within the hidden depths of nature's fury. It's only a matter of time before her surreal, life-giving macro-organism-like body succumbs to an uncontrollable and destructive rage. While our leaders may warn against the fatal impacts of nuclear weapons, true prevention of total destruction requires internalizing our interconnectedness with this great mother, whose womb we share and whose soils will be our final resting place.

The very essence of destructive forces, the atoms that align to create fission and fusion, embody Kali. The birth of a nuclear explosion represents the creative impulse of Kali. Throughout history, bards, mystics, and poets have reminded us to approach this energy with reverence and fear. Once awakened, this fury possesses the power to strip us down to our bare bones.

Here, I invoke the colossal mother in honor of all my sisters and their children worldwide who have suffered at the hands of nefarious men.

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Voice Memo

Music : Seeds don’t ask for permission by Luis Berra

You say "feminine" like it is a weakness,
you pronounce it with delicate simplicity
almost like a sweet condescension.
You spell "feminine" like it is a soft,
volatile and impermanent thing.
Like, as if its effervescent nature
doesn't mind to dissolve involuntarily
into thin air. Like, as if the world
wouldn't notice if the feminine cease
to exist, as if it is expendable
at its best. You say "feminine" like
it is blasphemy, like it is fragility
entwined with flower and lace.
You pronounce it wrong,
your assumptions are wrong!

Don't delude yourself, the feminine
has sharp teeth & bones of inviolable
marrow and thick muscle creases
imitating the history of evolution,
of every single revolution. The
feminine is dark deep forest of
forbidden Gods, of creatures of
abyss with terrifying powers, not
to be meddled with. The feminine
is the graveyard of frozen abandoned
city of bones where death dances
wearing skeletal skirts
in her naked fury.

The feminine is unforgiving nature
with her wild ecstatic gasps purging
tornados and volcanos just to enrage
the creator. It is also the moon
holding the seven seas together, the
ones that can engulf the entire world
in its shivering breathless depths
if the balance is perturbed. The
feminine is the hungry tigress hunting
endlessly, gorging on blood and meat
to revel and feed its cubs. The
feminine is the wolf and her pack
tearing apart intruders, dissevering
them for freedom.

The feminine is the colossal, perennial
oak, whose branches reach out to the
heaven & roots penetrate the inner
obscure depths of earth. It is also
the screech of the disturbed vulture
challenging you to cross threshold
of her sacred land.

The feminine is the wild, dark, whirling,
chaotic, energies of the universe - the
dark matter, the impertinent, the inevitable.
She is the hungry mother who eats her placenta
and stands over her new born, to dare the
world with blood besmeared thighs, and blood
clotted at the corner of her eyes. She is
the one who rises after the betrayal and
torture, with ankles chained to the pillars
of a burning world. She rises after her
spirit was impounded like a beast.

She will rise, the dark, wild feminine,
to feast on blood in turn for the one's
that dried up in the veins of her flagellated,
mutilated, raped and dead daughters. When
she will awaken, the world will fall into
a backward spiral and even the mention of
this terrible mother will send a shiver
down our spines.

Mahakali (The Great Mother) by Yogesh Pugaonkar

I have been working on an essay that needs to be published soon. However, amidst the chaos of moving across the country and resettling, it has been quite a wild ride thus far. I am aiming to establish a self-fulfilling cycle of creativity, which initially takes shape in my personal world before translating into my work. Perhaps soon, I will have something substantial to share.

While we may observe others from afar and think we understand their circumstances, empathizing with them, we can never truly comprehend their pain and suffering. We can only grasp the depth of another's anguish if we ourselves are fated to undergo similar trials in the same manner. In this realization lies the elusive essence of the divine, the quest we so fervently pursue in scriptures and holy sites. No two individuals, no matter how similar their experiences may seem, will ever live identical lives. Though we may all encounter pain, loss, and suffering eventually, each of us faces these trials at different times and under distinct circumstances.

Perhaps humility lies in recognizing that life, with all its intricacies and idiosyncrasies, is a collective journey, and none of us are exempt from the consequences of existence.