Fragment No. 76

My Qashqai carpet

The carpet I have lived with since I was six years old, a gift from my father, given to me in our home in Isfahan. Its ornaments drawn from nature, from spiritual belief, from the personal histories of the women who wove it carry within them the songs that were sung as it was made. To look at it is to see a record of a way of life; to know its story is to hear the human voices behind it.

The tar

The instrument seen with me in the photo, sitting on the very carpet that shaped my childhood. The tar is a long-necked, waisted lute at the heart of Persian classical music, carved traditionally from mulberry wood with a thin membrane of stretched skin as its belly, its double courses of strings played with a small brass plectrum. It has been central to Iranian musical life for centuries and is considered one of the most important instruments in Persian classical music.

“Women in Solidarity” is a website and will soon be a book as well, reflecting on the power of connection and the courage of communities to build places that embody strength and cohesion. All the organizations I feature in this book and on the website embody this wonderful, ancient wisdom. For me, this holds the key to overcoming the climate crisis, war, environmental destruction, violence, and division.

The cover image is one of 100 fragments and draws its vitality from the cohesion of the other fragments across the globe. The projects described here are all interconnected and are complemented by many others; they grow, spread, give each other strength and encouragement, and are linked together.

This is a project aimed at raising the visibility of grassroots organizations that have preserved ancient knowledge beyond rational, patriarchal logic. Women who have shared this knowledge and, in doing so, maintained a deep sense of connection.

I want to draw attention to these women. These seven examples should be understood as inspiration, connection, and an opportunity for a space and a time of healing. They form a parallel to separation, division, and destruction.

They thrive on solidarity, on a connection to knowledge, to nature, to humans and non-humans.

They are all interconnected.

May Franzen who illustrated the book and the website with portraits from my travels and visits to the projects, painted the cover in her wonderful style: Fragment #76:

“Using the photograph as a starting point, I tried not to copy the original weaving pattern directly, but to translate it into my own painterly language. To do this, I developed a watercolor technique that I understand as a kind of ‘painterly weaving’: By layering horizontal and vertical lines in the primary colors blue, yellow, and red, new shades emerge through multiple transparent glazes. At the intersections of the lines, visual ‘knots’ form, which formally resemble the structure of a woven rug.

For me, these lines symbolize the multitude of humanitarian and feminist grassroots movements worldwide—individual initiatives, projects, and people who act independently of one another yet are connected. Through their overlapping and interaction, they unfold a collective power. My image is therefore intended as a visualization of a living network: a web of commitment, solidarity, and mutual support that—despite a fragmented starting point—gives rise to a multifaceted, colorful unity.”

I’m not exactly new to Finland – in fact, I moved here about twelve years ago. As a white, highly educated voluntary migrant from the Global North, my position within the international and migrant community in Finland has always been privileged. Nevertheless, I have struggled – perhaps I chose a poor cultural fit for myself, or perhaps I underestimated the social effect of the darkness and overestimated my ability to find a job that would match my education and interests. And I was certainly not prepared to see my health crumble more than once.

Yet, even in times of despair, dullness, and regret, I knew there were thousands of people far worse off. I kept fighting – for myself, for my daughter who was born here in Finland, and for anyone else who might have struggled with belonging and feeling accepted. Everywhere I was reminded of the things I struggled daily to achieve: having friends nearby, being fluent in Finnish, having a job, a context, a purpose in life. I searched for places where I could truly feel free outside the safety of my home sanctuary.

And I found some. Some were void of people: on the beach, at the literal edge of the community. Others were in areas where the poor live and endure – immigrants, the unemployed, the sick and addicted, those who have no choice. What is typical of these places is that people are visible; the weight of their problems and the height of their joys spill out beyond the borders of the shabby council flats. The private blends with the common, the foreign with the familiar. Conflicts and achievements are expressed directly. Social norms are blurred and pushed into the background. For the first time, I felt I could be both local and foreign. I was free.

The Fragment followed me there. I placed it where I had seen people just moments before. It became a placeholder for my soul during times when I could not be there physically – a quiet witness, a reminder that belonging is always within reach, both in place and in mind.