Colombians and football

(This is what happens when you try and write about something (coffee) and get distracted by a random other topic and go off on a tangent too long to plausibly fit into what you were writing about…)

Those of you who know me will know that I am not the biggest football fan (understatement) and that I have never quite managed to sit through an entire match. You will no doubt be as surprised as I am by the topic of the current post, coming as it does from one so poorly versed in this most global of sports.

During my time in Colombia it was the Copa América, which, from what I recall, took place in June. I made no fewer than three attempts to watch a match from start to finish, all of which failed. During the first I was very far from the screen in an overcrowded and noisy bar (WHY oh WHY are vuvuzelas allowed INDOORS??) in Bogota’s Zona T, so escaped halfway through, fairly exasperated and bored out of my mind, and took refuge in a nearby Burger King. The second time I was too tired to try and lasted a meagre 20 minutes. The third time the match got postponed for an hour after half time because of rain and thankfully I was with like-minded people who couldn’t be bothered to wait that long either. We lost anyway.

Despite clearly not being the biggest fan, caring at all about the score or knowing the rules to the game, I am always very intrigued by the significance of football (and by football I mean the national team) in Colombia. One of the things that struck me is that, despite not knowing the first thing about the sport (and certainly not the fixtures), in Colombia I was always able to tell when it was a match day, simply because of the sheer number of people sporting that dazzling yellow shirt. On match days the number of street sellers peddling all kinds of football related merchandise increased tenfold – shirts, caps, those bloody vuvuzelas, flags, jewellery – a veritable sea of yellow, blue and red. Obviously people in the UK are very supportive of our national football teams, I mean, we have enthusiastic pub goers and, er, bunting. But it’s just not the same. I have mentioned this difference on many occasions to Colombian friends only to receive a bemused expression, a shrug of the shoulders and a “pues sí, somos muy patriotas/folclóricos/futboleros…” (well yes, we’re very patriotic, happy and big football fans). This didn’t really help to explain it, as people in the UK are obviously all of the above too. I think maybe Colombians on the whole are just more willing to celebrate. Even if they lose.

For me, the proof of just how important football is in Colombian society is how it seems to pervade all non-football related areas of life.

On the hellishly long bus ride from Quibdó to Pereira that I foolishly subjected myself to, a woman stood up in the middle of the bus to talk. As you do in Colombia. She proceeded to lecture us in all seriousness, and none too lightly, about God. Despite its length, I never really got the gist of her speech and I don’t think I was the only one. What surprised me was that a fair few people were genuinely listening and questioned her about what she had said (as opposed to the stony silence she would no doubt have received here, if she even stood up). Hilariously, one joker suggested that she pray for the national team in the upcoming game… A proposal to which she very earnestly agreed.

One afternoon in Cartagena Ivan and I were sitting on the beaching waiting for the sunset (after having evaded the hoards of women offering us massages) when, on an impulse, I decided to get a braid (23 going on 13). I kid you not, the friendly hair-braiding lady was all set to do it in yellow, red and blue “for the game.” As if I didn’t already look like enough of a tourist.

I guess what I most liked about Colombia’s love of football is just how contagious it is. Men and women of all ages – even those who aren’t the biggest sporting fans – go all out to show their support for their team. They genuinely care. Indisputable proof of the spread of this infectious, football-loving spirit is the fact that I, the self-confessed football phobe, own a Colombian football shirt.




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Bogota, the best place I’ve called home…

Little after arriving in Colombia I remember seeing a friend’s photo on Facebook, a panorama of Bogota at night with the caption “the best place I’ve ever called home.” This particular friend had already spent a year teaching in Bogota and at that moment I remember wondering if I’d leave with the same opinion (something I very much doubted at the time). It has therefore come as a great surprise to find myself so nostalgic now that I’m back in little old England, sitting in the kitchen with a cuppa while I write.


We’ve had a very love-hate relationship over the months, Bogota and I, and there’s no denying that the city has its faults. I’m sure I could list at least 50. It’s chaotic, polluted, dangerous, messy, cloudy, grey and, quite frankly, a bit ugly. The inequality is shocking – travelling from north to south makes you realise that the Bogota of the rich and the Bogota of the not-so-well-off are worlds apart – and homelessness in the city is just tragic. Yet in spite of this there is something about Bogota.

It wasn’t until the night before I left that I realised just how right my Facebook photo friend was. After a terrifying climb, Ivan and I reached the Mirador de la Roca, in Usaquén, just in time to catch the last rays of the setting sun and looking out over all those thousands of twinkling lights, beside one of the best people I know, the brilliance of Bogota and its indescribable, can’t-quite-put-your-finger-on-it charm really hit me. From up there, away from all the noise and commotion, the jigsaw stretching out below us seemed such a welcoming place, one that had adopted me, the would-be Colombiana, and swallowed me up among its other 9 million residents. Despite my reservations in the first few weeks, at that moment I felt incredibly grateful to have been one of the never ending expanse of glittering lights below, swept up in the ever changing ebb and flow of the city. In short, Bogota is a place unlike any other and one that I am honoured to have called my home.


(I will continue now with all the other places I visited in this wonderful country that, through pure procrastination, I have yet to write about).

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Wandering around the Tatacoa

For me, more than anything else, the Tatacoa is proof that Colombia really does have everything: rain forests, huge sprawling cities, idyllic little towns, mountains, picture-perfect white sand beaches, tropical islands, plains, enormous national parks, even deserts, as I happily discovered a few months ago.

Back in April I went on a trip to the Huila department, in the south west of the country, with my good friend David. We got a bus to the capital of the department, Neiva, which took us about 6 hours from Bogota. It was fairly late by the time we got there, so our first night consisted of finding somewhere to sleep.

As already mentioned, the Tatacoa is a desert and the second largest one in the country, after the northern Guajira peninsula. It is an earthy, orange colour in some parts and much greyer in others. We travelled first to Villavieja and from there to the desert itself. In the desert there are several places to stay fairly close to the entrance, where you can pay for a cabin or a space to pitch a tent. We decided to do the latter. After everything was set up and a fairly odd lunch of chicken, plantain and strawberries (food is pretty expensive) we set off to explore!

It is possible to go horse riding, rent bikes or get someone to give you a lift on their motorbike. We went with the motorbike option and then carried on by foot. In reality, and as you would expect of a desert, the Tatacoa is essentially a vast expanse of nothingness, cacti and small canyon-like formations, coupled with a stifling, dry heat. But this in itself is the beauty of it. It is a land quite unlike any other I’ve seen in this country and one that lends itself to reflection and pondering. Here’s a more visual description of the above, together with me posing with the most impressive cactus in the vicinity.





Despite the breathtaking day-time panorama, for me the Tatacoa was at its most impressive at night time. Luckily for us, the night we stayed was relatively cloud-free and there is obviously no light pollution in the middle of a desert, so we could fully appreciate the brilliance of the night sky. We spent a few hours just looking at the stars and, whilst we didn’t see the promised meteor shower, it was nonetheless a unique experience and one that always serves to make any problems or issues pale into insignificance.

We left the desert the following morning and made our way back to Neiva. To make the most of the time before our bus back to Bogotá we decided to visit the nearby town of Rivera, home to many many hot springs.

Rivera is an idyllic and green place, very close to the capital. The way there was simply beautiful and the town itself didn’t disappoint! We got a mototaxi (essentially a golf buggy) to some hot springs high above the town, which we had been told were the best value for money out of the three options. As proof of the above, they were packed with people. Unfortunately, and rather ridiculously, they were too hot to actually get in (I made several attempts). I believe this only served to add to my foreignness, as exemplified by one local’s goading his daughter into jumping in with the encouragement that she not be so cowardly as “la gringa esta”… The situation became all the more comical when he thought it prudent to then confirm with my friend that I don’t speak Spanish (“ella no habla español, verdad?”). I like to think my knowing smile rather contradicted his assumption…

After a quick lunch we hopped back on the bus to Neiva, and then made our way back to wonderful Bogota.


Lovely, green Rivera!

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Acacias and the inevitability of aguardiente

If there’s one thing I’ve learnt during my time in Colombia, it’s that sometimes aguardiente is simply unavoidable. Occasionally you can get away with excuses such as “I’ve got to be up early tomorrow” “I’m on medication and can’t drink” or by desperately shouting “NO.” However, aguardiente is more than just a drink (and Colombia’s national drink at that – which alone is enough to make people delight in forcing it upon helpless foreigners). Aguardiente, or “guaro” as it is affectionately referred to by some, is a unifier, enjoying equal popularity among the rich and the poor, the old and the young in every corner of this humongous country. Unlike drinking in the UK, in which people usually buy and consume their own alcohol, aguardiente is very much a group event and is shared out among friends, family and often just random strangers who happen to be nearby… Similarly, there is no single drink in the UK that is so universally liked and representative of the nation as aguardiente is of Colombia. More than anything, drinking it is almost a source of national pride and celebration of Colombia and that joyful, happy-go-lucky Colombian spirit. Aguardiente Antioqueña proudly brands itself as “the best of Colombia for the world” …


The word aguardiente comes from Latin and means hot water, or fire water. I can confirm that the drink itself very much embodies this name. It is made of distilled sugar cane molasses, anise and water. As opposed to being sweet, as one might foolishly imagine, it is overly reminiscent of sambuca, hence my problem. You can put it in coffee, aguapanela, and many other things, however it is most commonly consumed in shot form, washed down with several (desperate) gulps of water.

There are many things that I’ve grown to love during my stay in Colombia that at first seemed odd beyond belief. These include the bocadillo and cheese combo, aguapanela (aka sugar water) and arepas (yes, even arepas), however I am afraid that aguardiente is NOT one of them, nor is it ever likely to become one. Nowhere have I learnt this truth quite so painfully as in Acacias, Meta…

As usual, this blog is a tad late, so we’re going to back-track to the end of March… After my Easter holiday plans decided to unplan themselves, Fayida and I took a spontaneous trip to Acacias, in the Meta department, with my housemate Silvana who has family there.

Acacias is a beautiful little town a 3-4 hour bus journey south-west of Bogota and is part of the Llanos Orientales. It is a quaint, tranquil and ridiculously hot kind of place with unbelieveably green and vibrant countryside and a sky that seems to stretch on forever. Due to the incredible heat our day-time activities consisted of lazying around and going for a dip in the nearby river. However, in the evenings we went to the park in the centre of the town and spent a happy few hours wandering around, people watching and sampling one of the weirdest fruit salads I’ve ever encountered. It’s called a cholao and is made of about 50 ingredients (I’m not joking, the process of assembling it took about 5 minutes). It typically consists of crushed ice, many different flavoured syrups, lots of different fruit (papaya, banana, passion fruit, apple, mango, lulo, guanabana), ice-cream, condensed milk, cheese, hot chocolate powder, chocolate sauce, a wafer and probably many other things. Really makes you think to yourself, “how on earth did they come up with this?”




The most typical food from the area is called Mamona (essentially grilled veal). I can’t comment on it as I did not try it, which everyone I have spoken to since seemed fairly scandalised by. The most typical music is Joropo, which involves a harp and an incredibly complicated dance, as you can see below.

As the title suggests, the most memorable (or not, as it happens) part of my stay in Acacias was sampling aguardiente llanero. I have a sneaking suspicion that this particular type of aguardiente is much stronger than the regular one. We proceeded to drink it in true Colombian fashion, seated around a table in a little bar with a shot glass each. Unfortunately for me, said shots were poured at a alarming pace and after muddling my way through several salsa songs it was safe to say I’d had more than my fair share. My night ended with rather exhilarating motorbike journey back to Silvana’s house in the early hours. Unfortunately the following day was not nearly so enjoyable.

And the moral of the story is… avoid aguardiente at all costs.


Beautiful Acacias!


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Carnival Craziness

At the start of February I returned once more to the city of Barranquilla, this time to experience one of the most important dates in the Colombian calender: Carnival!

I flew to Barranquilla a few days before the carnival began with my housemates and a few other friends. Conveniently, my housemate Silvana is from Barranquilla and her family very kindly allowed us to stay in their home. We had a relaxing first day chilling on a beach near the city. It bears mentioning that Barranquilla is an incredibly hot place. Whilst I freely admit that I am not particularly good at dealing with such places (understatement), one of the things I like most about them is how life completely changes: it’s practically impossible to be stressed or to rush when you run the risk of melting from the exertion.


In the evening we went to the Plaza del Caribe to a free concert called “Noches del Rio,” celebrating the start of the carnival and music from around the Magdalena River, and indeed, the whole world. One of the things I like most about Colombia is how important traditional music continues to be, regardless of age, and how much it varies according to region.

Undeniable proof that carnival is so much more that the parades are the street parties. On Friday evening we went to one such party (two actually) in the centre of the city. I was initially somewhat confused as to why we were going to a random street, but it soon became clear enough. Music was playing, the aguardiente was flowing (woo..) and a plentiful supply of flour and foam spray could also be obtained. Soon enough everyone in the vicinity was all but unrecognisable, covered in a sticky mixture of flour and foam, laughably drunk and happily dancing to the music. There was such a contagious, carefree buzz in the air among the hundreds of people packed in the streets, that I was left convinced of the following; parties where you can unashamedly squirt people with foam, bombard them with flour and drink 20 p beers are my kind of parties.


After a few hours we went in search of food and found ourselves a rather yummy chuso desgranado. This is a very typical Barranquilla thing and one that consists of meat, lettuce, tiny crisps called “fóforos,” sweetcorn, costeño cheese (aka the best Colombian cheese I have come across thus far) a whole host of sauces (tomato, mayonnaise, pineapple…) and a very hard-to-describe thing called bollo (google it). It’s nicer than it sounds and looks.


We soon moved onto our second street party of the night, outside the iconic Troja salsa bar, where we bumped into the rest of the British Council assistants. We spent a few hours dancing in the streets, which were still full to bursting with party-goers. We were, however, forced to make a move in the early hours, after quite hilariously discovering that one of our party had consumed rather more than their fair share of aguardiente…

On Saturday the carnival parades kicked off. After a mad rush to make it to the stands by 11 am and a heated discussion with a guard who responded to our question as to why our seats were already taken with a, “they always sell more tickets that seats” (genius), we then waited a good hour for the procession to actually begin. Ahh Colombia…

The first parade is called the “Batalla de Flores,” and it was very much worth the wait! As its name suggests, there was rather a lot of flower throwing going on. Needless to say, my only “carnival” experience up until this point (Frome Carnival) left me wholly unprepared for the intensity and duration of Barranquilla Carnival. The parade was full of all manner of costumes (I particularly enjoyed the women dancing whilst balancing aguardiente on their heads) and a huge variety of dance groups called “comparsas” – the 20 or so members of one such group were ALL dressed as gorillas, which, in the baking heat of Barranquilla was impressive in itself. There was also a questionable amount of blacking up, as well as half-naked women, carnations being thrown in all directions and a baffling number of carnival queens. It seemed like every company or organisation present had one; supermarkets, mobile phone companies, newspapers, beer brands, even the bloody police! Over the following days the parades were equally crazy – it was all enough to make Frome Carnival rather pale in comparison…


A important part of carnival are the various characters that accompany it, a wacky mix of inexplicable creations. One of the most iconic is the “Marimonda.” Originally a joke intended to mock the rich and make them feel uncomfortable, it turned into a popular symbol. It is said to have been created by a Barranquillero who couldn’t afford a costume and it consists of wearing a brightly coloured mask that bears a strong resemblance to  a penis, with the craziest, most clown-esque clothes you possess. Worn back to front, of course.


Another well known character is the “Negrita Puloy,” a black woman wearing a frilly red and white dress, with big necklaces and earrings.


The “Maria Moñitos” is another face that makes a regular appearance. This costume took off after one Barranquillero entered the parade with hundreds of brightly coloured ribbons woven into his hair, a face full of make up, high heels and a brightly coloured party dress, perfectly encapsulating the happiness, audacity and “mamadera de gallo” the Costeño people are renowned for.


I will now leave you with what was undoubtedly the most played song during the carnival. This kind of music is called Champeta. It’s from Cartagena, a coastal city in the north of Colombia, and is ridiculously catchy. The song essentially describe a upper class woman (posh being “pupi”) who didn’t used to like Champeta, as she considers it “coleta” (chavy). She then gets sucked into a TV, dances Champeta and becomes la Pupileta. Obviously.

The following video was the official carnival video last year and features the then carnival queen. It’s a somewhat odd video that illustrates the carnival timeline, as well as many carnival characters. On the first day of the parades the human embodiment of the carnival spirit, Joselito Carnaval, is brought back to life and the celebrations begin. The parade on the fourth and final day of carnival is known as the “Muerte de Joselito,” his death symbolising the end of the celebrations for another year.


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The Joys of Santa Marta

(From the beginning of January – I am impressively behind)

After we returned from Valledupar, Sovio and I spent a few days chilling in Barranquilla, getting to know the city a bit better and visiting all the touristy spots and museums. I will be describing Barranquilla itself in more detail in my next post, so for now I’m going to focus on a trip we took to Santa Marta and Minca.

Santa Marta is a city about 1-1.30 hours from Barranquilla and near to it is Tayrona Park, an enormous national park with a visitable tourist area complete with campsites, walking routes and restaurants. We took the earliest bus to Santa Marta and from there we got a taxi to Tayrona. It turns out they stop letting people in at around 11am, when the park quotas are “full”, so we were among the lucky few who just made it! Our plan to avoid paying an extortionate amount for food/water once inside meant we ended up lugging a huge six litre bottle of water through the jungle and surviving on an odd diet of biscuits, bread and tinned goods whilst there. Luckily, there are lots of little shops at the entrance where you can buy such things. Much to my anger, my Colombian foreign ID card wasn’t deemed sufficient proof of my residence in the country, meaning I had to pay the special (extortionate) foreigners’s fee (15 vs 50 pesos).

Once inside we got a shuttle bus until the road ended, then, after mistakenly taking a path that led us in a massive circle for a good hour, we found the route and began the two hour walk to the first beach, Arrecifes. We continued on to the furthest and best beach, Cabo San Juan, only to be told that they had no more tents to rent, so had to trek back to Arrecifes. My advice – get there early! We had a little swim before heading back to the first beach, and it was BEAUTIFUL.




The adverse effects of the heat


Cabo San Juan

The following day we got up early to watch the sunrise on the beach. It was definitely one of those “am I really here?” moments. The peace and tranquillity of the moment was broken only by the waves crashing against the shore.


For me the words “national park” conjure up images of vast, empty and isolated landscapes, so the park was much livelier and more touristy than I was expecting. From what I can remember they let in about 1000 people a day and there are several restaurants inside and an unfortunate amount of litter. In short, it’s a far cry from the Lake District.

We decided to do the trek to “Pueblito”, a small indigenous settlement belonging to the Kogui people, the descendants of the Tayronas who once lived in the area. The walk lasted about an hour and a half, climbing 260 metres above sea level. It was formed mostly of huuuuge rocks and boulders, making it more of a case of leaping from rock to rock than a simple climb; quite the adventure! The route was incredible. Everything felt huge and we saw all sorts of different plants, birds, butterflies and innumerable strange little blue-tailed lizards. The place just felt so full of life, with any number of weird and wonderful sights to be discovered around the corner. Pueblito itself was composed of four or five wooden huts constructed on what remains of the ancient Tayrona site. It wasn’t exactly anti-climatic, rather the whole idea of an “Indian village” for tourists to visit seems highly questionable to me. The enormity of the climb made it more than worth it in the end though.



The following day we left the Parque Tayrona and made our way to what is, without doubt, one of the best places I’ve visited in Colombia so far; a small town called Minca, up in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. Upon arrival, very hot and bothered, we were less than impressed with the 210 stairs up to our hostel, but it was definitely worth the climb. At 650 m above sea level I found the climate in Minca to be much more acceptable. The hostel, Casa Loma, was really quirky and homey, high up in the hills with amazing views over the pueblo. Lounging in the hammocks you could look out across the mountains and take in the beautiful sunset, a situation that was made all the more enjoyable with passionfruit mojitos. We stayed in a little cabaña hidden in the trees and woke up refreshed and eager to explore.

IMG_3433We set off fairly early on a hike to Los Piños – a viewpoint up in the Sierra Nevada – armed with a dubious hand-drawn and very out of scale map provided by the hostel. You can see where this is going… We got off to a flying start and soon made it to some stunning waterfalls, where Sovio was brave enough to go for a swim (they were FREEZING). The route was incredibly beautiful, so green and vibrant and the kind of place that just makes you feel more alive for being there. The way was filled with enormous bamboos as big as a small house, and all kinds of plants, vines and colourful butterflies. After the sprawl of Bogotá it was fairly surreal.


The long and short of the story is that after the waterfalls we somehow managed to miss the shorter footpath, and instead continued climbing for hours along the “main road.” Some helpful people in a hostel pointed us in the right direction and we eventually made it to Los Piños. Despite the heat and the difficulty of the climb it was well worth it!!



We hadn’t initially planned to go to Minca, but I’m so glad we did. Despite it being a small town, I could’ve easily stayed a few days or weeks longer. Though Minca is fairly touristy – I saw almost as many French people as I did cats, and believe me, there was a disproportionately high number of cats – it still has its particular charm. The centre or “plaza” (for those generous enough to refer to it as such) felt like that of any other small town, aside from the handful of hostels scattered among the greengrocers, bakeries and cafes. If I’ve learnt one thing during my stay in Colombia, it is that I am NOT a city person.

Unfortunately, thanks to our detour it was late afternoon by the time we reached the viewpoint, meaning that we had to literally run back down the mountain (having successfully located the mystery footpath) in order to make it back in time to take a taxi to Santa Marta, and from there the bus to Barranquilla.

All in all I had a marvellous few days and strongly encourage anyone so minded to visit this incredible corner of the world.

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A Reflection on International Women’s Day

(I wrote this post a good fortnight ago…Punctuality is very far from being my forté)

Today, the 8th March, is International Women’s Day. To be perfectly honest, it’s not a key date in my calendar and not something I would’ve remembered if it weren’t for the fact that it’s everywhere on social media – even Facebook is asking me how I’m celebrating…

Here in Colombia, I can only come to the conclusion that International Women’s Day has been seriously misinterpreted. Today, upon entering my English class at 8 am I was greeted by many a “Feliz Día de la Mujer teacher!” much to my confusion. Later on in the staff room I was given sweets by no fewer than five people, also wishing me a happy Women’s Day. I was sent numerous whatsapp messages with brightly coloured, sickly-sweet cartoons repeating the above, to which I responded with a bewildered “gracias!” Upon leaving university I saw many schoolgirls carrying roses or chocolates – Women’s Day gifts. In my dance class all female members were given a rose. As if it were an excuse to repeat the same commercialised horror that is Valentine’s Day. In short; it’s not.


“Women are exceptional… They are as strong as an oak, they attract everyone’s attention, they have the courage of a knight and a contagious sweetness, they are so beautiful and we love them so much that we celebrate a day especially for them”


“Happy Women’s Day, because women like you make life lovelier”

I understand that different cultures have very distinct ways of marking celebrations, yet in my interpretation (and I’m very aware that it is nothing more than that; an interpretation) International Women’s Day has nothing to do with the above. Converting it into little more than another field day for modern commercialism, to celebrate the simple fact that a given person identifies as female, is to do a grave injustice to an event that is still of vital importance today.

To me this does not seem to be a simple case of an alternative way of celebrating the day, but rather a complete contradiction of its focus and principles, i.e. gender equality. Granted, at first glance they seem harmless enough, but messages such as the ones above do much to further emphasise the supposed differences between men and women. Interpreting qualities such as “loving,” “sweet” and “beautiful” as principally female traits, as opposed to what they really are – HUMAN characteristics – further separates men and women. It reinforces stereotypes that have limited both sexes to rigid categories since the dawn of time and promotes the idea of gender as an inherent quality, as opposed to what it truly is, a societal construct.

It’s like saying let’s celebrate women’s emancipation and progress by giving them all these very stereotypical and gender specific gifts and compliments… On the surface it may seem cute and harmless, but that’s the very problem: trivialisation serves to make this day meaningless, at the same time as aiding a subtle, (and probably wholly unintentional) current of sexism.

My disquiet at the above interpretation inspired me to investigate the history of International Women’s Day and what it’s really about. It all began in the early 1900s with various protests and marches in the US against women’s oppression; in 1908 15 000 women marched through New York demanding shorter hours, better pay and voting rights. Women’s Day was observed nationally the following year. International Women’s Day was born a year later and marked in various European countries. The New York “Triangle Fire,” in which over 140 women died trapped in a factory, is widely believed to be the event that catalysed International Women’s Day, drawing attention to women’s working conditions and rights. International Women’s Day became increasingly important and more widely celebrated over the following years. In 1913 the date was changed to the 8th March and has remained the same ever since. One of the main original focuses of the day was the granting of universal suffrage and over the years the day has adopted different emphases: a world free of violence against women, empower rural women, women in decision making etc. Though many nowadays (erroneously) believe that feminism’s cause has been won, IWD is still observed to both celebrate women’s achievements and illustrate the many issues they still face, such as unequal pay and the overwhelming dominance of men in politics and business.

International Women’s Day was seen as a necessity in order to raise the profile of women’s rights and support the struggle of oppressed women worldwide. This event was considered essential back in 1909, and it is a struggle that is, in my opinion, unfortunately just as relevant, important and necessary today, and one that must seek to avoid a misinterpreted and wholly commercialised fate.

So, instead of using International Women’s Day as an occasion to congratulate me on my gender (thanks…) or overlooking it entirely, I wholeheartedly urge all people to interpret it as a day to reflect on how they can act to promote gender equality in their own lives, because after all, sexism is not simply a women’s issue.

“I raise up my voice—not so I can shout, but so that those without a voice can be heard…we cannot succeed when half of us are held back.” ―Malala Yousafzai



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