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Get to know women's narratives of war; Patient witnesses of pain

BingMag.com <b>Get</b> to <b>know</b> <b>women's</b> <b>narratives</b> of <b>war;</b> <b>Patient</b> <b>witnesses</b> of pain

War is a devastating event. A phenomenon whose impact lasts until the end of the life of those who are somehow involved in it. It is common in the world that in many books, treatises, articles and reports, men are mentioned as the heroes of wars, but the women who prepare men to fight on both sides of the battlefield in addition to bravery in the danger at the front, are real heroes and There are unknown people who do not appreciate. The presence of women in the First and Second World Wars, the Biafra war in the African continent, the battle with ISIS in Syria and Iraq, etc. is a proof of this claim. The courage, selflessness and sacrifice of thousands of girls and women who served in the armies or volunteer groups and died for their countries has never been recognized. In this article, we will talk about books in which the memories of women who were present in the war, were wounded, captured, died or experienced freedom are narrated so that maybe they can be consoled and restore their dignity.

War does not have a female faceBingMag.com <b>Get</b> to <b>know</b> <b>women's</b> <b>narratives</b> of <b>war;</b> <b>Patient</b> <b>witnesses</b> of pain

After seven decades of the tragedy that killed hundreds of women members of the Soviet army in World War II, Svetlana Aleksandrona Alekseevich, a Russian writer and journalist, has written this work, which is a documentary and shocking account of the sacrifice of more than 500,000 women who gave away the best years of their lives, their dreams and aspirations in the defense of the homeland. /p>

The author collected information for four years to write the book. During this time, he visited more than a hundred cities and villages and spoke to many people. Women, many of whom refused to express their suffering. The result of the author's efforts is a masterpiece that is the pain book of Russian women soldiers of the World War.

In a part of the book War has no female face, we read:

"About men's boots and women's hats: "We in the ground We used to live... like a blind mouse... when it was spring, you would bring a branch and put it on the ledge. You would watch it and be happy. You might not be there tomorrow. That's why you think to yourself and try to remember the branch... to send woolen women's clothes from home to one of the girls. We were jealous. Even though we knew that it was not possible to wear personal clothes in the war. Arshadmun, who was a man, grumbled and said: "It would have been better if they sent you bedding." It was more beneficial." We didn't have bedding, we didn't have pillows. We slept on the branches, on the straw. But I had a pair of earrings that I always hid from others, I would put them on my ears before going to sleep and sleep with them...

When I was injured for the first time, I could neither hear nor speak. I told myself if I can't talk anymore, I will throw myself under the train. I, who was singing so beautifully, suddenly lost my voice. Fortunately, Saddam returned. I was feeling happy, when I listened to my earrings, I went to the guard post, I shouted with joy: "Mr. Captain, the guard is reporting so-and-so..." - "Let me see what this is?"

- "What do you mean?"

- "Get lost from here!"

- "What happened?"

- "Take off your earrings immediately Come on! What's the situation? The captain was very handsome. All the girls were somehow in love with him. He kept telling us that only soldiers are needed in war! Only and only a soldier!... But we wanted to look beautiful too... I was afraid that my legs would be disabled during the whole war. My legs are very beautiful. what about men It doesn't matter much if they lose their legs. However, everyone considers them heroes. The husband that everyone dreams of! But if a woman becomes disabled, her fate will be ruined. Her feminine destiny..."

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The Last GirlBingMag.com <b>Get</b> to <b>know</b> <b>women's</b> <b>narratives</b> of <b>war;</b> <b>Patient</b> <b>witnesses</b> of pain

History has stories of people who were oppressed because of their religion, skin color, geography and gender. There have always been those who thought that they were the only ones who stood on the right side and had the duty to lead mankind to the right path. And they have experienced their flesh. Yazidis have always had their rights violated in the conflict between Kurds and Iraqi Sunnis. But the description does not include the cruelty that the ISIS group has allowed on them. This work tells the story of the life and struggle of Nadia Murad, who was caught in the clutches of this extremist group and was tortured and sexually abused because of her religion. first he does Then ISIS men arrive. Men are massacred and girls and women are taken as sex slaves. They are sold in markets or given to commanders as rewards.

In a part of the book The Last Daughter we read:

"We came to an intersection with a sign pointing towards Kirkuk, The driver stopped. "I can't take you any longer," he said. You have to walk from here to the checkpoint." Because he had a Mosul license plate, he might have been interrogated and arrested by the Peshmerga.

He said to Nasser: "I will wait here. If they don't let you in, go back and we'll go back to Mosul together." Nasser thanked him, paid his fare, and we collected our things from the car. We started walking towards the checkpoint, we were the only people walking on the dirt shoulder of the road. Nasser asked me: "Are you tired?" And I nodded and said, "I'm so tired." I felt that all the water in my body was drawn and I still did not hope that we could successfully travel the whole way. I couldn't help but think of the worst idea with every step I took - ISIS would have caught us right now while we were walking, or would have arrested Nasser Peshmerga. Kirkuk was a dangerous city, often the scene of sectarian wars even before the war with ISIS, and I imagined ourselves being driven off in a car bomb or an IED and finished. We still had a long way to go.

Let's just Get to the checkpoint and see what happens, he told me. Then he asked: "Where are your families?"

I said: "Zakho. Near Duhok"

He asked: "How far is it from Kirkuk?"

I shook my head and said: "I don't know. the period." We continued the rest of the way together in silence."

At the checkpoint, people lined up in cars and on foot to be interviewed by the police....

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Balkan ExpressBingMag.com <b>Get</b> to <b>know</b> <b>women's</b> <b>narratives</b> of <b>war;</b> <b>Patient</b> <b>witnesses</b> of pain

The image of wars that has always been shown to people is through the media, but in this work, the author has depicted various parts of the Yugoslav war with a new perspective and insight, and expressed the reaction of ordinary people to their terrible and painful situation.

The memoirs of Slavonka Drakuli, a prominent Croatian journalist and author, have been able to show a real and human side of the Balkan war and show how these bloody conflicts have affected her family members and her closest friends and colleagues, both Serbian and Croatian.

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The author wrote about Balkan Express: "This work starts where the news ends. Somewhere between events and analysis, and people's personal narratives, because war does not happen only on the battle fronts, war is everywhere and we are all involved in it. I am talking about the other side of war, the invisible face of war. How it slowly changes us from the inside. If these short essays of mine have a word for the reader, it is this: the same change of values, way of thinking and the way of looking at the world that happens in this internal aspect of the war... We are all complicit in the continuation of this war due to opportunism and fear. Because by packing our bags, by continuing to shop, by working on our land, by pretending that nothing happened and by thinking that it is not our problem, we are actually betraying those "others."

In a part of the book Balkan Express, we read:

"I was sitting in the car and through the windshield, down the road, I could see a checkpoint with a yellow sign that said "Customs" and a police officer was checking passports. And then he would indicate with his hand that they can go. On the right side of the road was a white metal booth, similar to a caravan - a police and customs station - and a new Slovenian flag was flying on top of the tall pole next to it. It looked more like a contrived checkpoint in a remote province, but it was actually the main border crossing between Slovenia and Croatia, for example, and I was crossing it for the first time. The border itself was completely new; The Croats had not yet had a chance to appoint their own agents. I got out of the car and walked on the asphalt in the town of Bregana, under the dull winter sun, I slowly took out my passport and handed it to the Slovenian police officer, a young man who came up to me with a smile, as if he was proud of his work. I looked at my passport in his hand. The old red cover passport of Yugoslavia. Suddenly I realized what a senseless and ridiculous situation we were in: I knew that he, who is checking my passport, has the same passport himself. And we were the citizens of a country that was collapsing and becoming two countries, in front of a border that was not yet properly defined, with passports that were no longer valid. Until now, the Slovenian government, Croatian government, borders and divisions were something more or less unreal. But now these gun-toting men in Slovenian police uniforms were standing between me and Slovenia, a part of the country that used to belong to me."

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A woman in BerlinBingMag.com <b>Get</b> to <b>know</b> <b>women's</b> <b>narratives</b> of <b>war;</b> <b>Patient</b> <b>witnesses</b> of pain

The last major European battle in World War II was the Battle of Berlin, which finally led to the fall of the capital of the Third Reich on May 2, 1945. All that was left of Berlin were ruins, and the survivors of the city, who were mostly women, the elderly, and children, were in a state of They were having a bad time. Eat food and you will not die, and they spent their days in the remains of ruined buildings. It was in this jam that the Soviet soldiers occupied the city and added to the sufferings of hundreds of survivors. During the eight weeks they occupied the city, the Russians unleashed all their anger and lust on the survivors of the defeat. In the meantime, a woman who was subjected to frequent assaults, in a half-destroyed apartment, along with several other people, secretly wrote her diaries and recorded the sufferings of those days with a novel-like openness and transparency.

In part From the book of a woman in Berlin we read:

- She shakes her head, stares at me for a moment and spits on the floor in front of the bed, spits in contempt. He goes after his work. The nightmare disappears. I'll fall like a log and sleep for three hours.

- If I stay here longer, I won't be sad anymore. Stepan feels safe. I look at him in amazement and in my mind I name him Alyosha, in memory of the brothers Karamazov.

- On the way back, a woman from the neighboring building accompanied us. And he told us that a woman from his apartment's neighbors had slept with Yem Rous many times. Her husband, who was an employee of the Wehrmacht and was discharged due to a heart problem, shot her from behind when he went to the kitchen stove and then shot himself in the mouth. They have one child left, a seven-year-old little girl. BingMag.com <b>Get</b> to <b>know</b> <b>women's</b> <b>narratives</b> of <b>war;</b> <b>Patient</b> <b>witnesses</b> of pain

This book is a collection of diaries of a Holocaust victim who lived secretly in an attic room for two years.

One day in 1944, Anne Frank rewrote, edited and prepared her notes after hearing the words of a member of the government in exile in the Netherlands about the need to collect letters and diaries of people during the Nazi occupation. Death did not spare him. But Otto Frank, her father, did his duty well and sent his daughter's notes to bookstore counters. I turned the page and I was shocked to see that I had written so many letters about my mother - that too in such a strong tone. I said to myself: Ann, are you really the one talking about hate? How can you do such a thing?

I sat down with a notebook and thought. Why has anger and hatred filled me so much that I had to share everything with you? I tried to understand the spirit of that one year ago and to find an explanation for its work, because until I leave these slanders before you and try to find out their cause, my conscience will not be relieved. At that time, from the situation that caused me to drown in my intellectual concerns - for example, and allowed me to see everything only and only from my own point of view, without calmly and coolly, my unpredictable mood that caused hurt and hurt. I would consider the feelings of those close to me and then behave exactly like them, I suffered and still suffer.

I was hidden in myself, I didn't think of anyone but myself, and I calmly accepted all the pleasures and I used to write my sarcasms and frustrations in my diary. It means a lot to me because this notebook has become a kind of scrapbook, but on most of its pages I wrote very easily: it's done and gone.

I was angry with my mother and I still am most of the time. . It is true that he did not understand me, but I did not understand him either. He had become sensitive and vulnerable both because of his love for me and the difficult situation I put him in. His own uncomfortable situation had made him nervous and irritable. So I can understand why he didn't bother me most of the time.

I used to resent and take things to heart and misbehave with him, which in turn upset him. We were trapped in the vicious circle of darkness and sadness. It was not a good period for any of us, but thankfully it is coming to an end. I didn't want to understand what was happening and I was constantly feeling sorry for myself, but that's normal.

Life, war and nothing elseBingMag.com <b>Get</b> to <b>know</b> <b>women's</b> <b>narratives</b> of <b>war;</b> <b>Patient</b> <b>witnesses</b> of pain

This book is the result of a one-year presence of Oriana Fallaci, a prominent journalist Italian is in Vietnam and Mexico. He gave the example of war and conflict to find the reason for life. rebelled He went to Vietnam. He saw the Olympic Games closely and shared his understanding of war and life with the audience in this work. They take it and put it on a chain and then take it to the customer so that the customer can burn different parts of the monkey's body with his cigarette or pierce the monkey's body with a knife. For example, he closes his eyes and the monkey goes crazy from pain and because he goes crazy Blood comes to his head and then they catch the monkey and bang! They break his skull and eat his brain raw and bloody. It is very delicious.

- The next day I went to Vietnam. In Vietnam there was war, there was fire and there was blood. I was a reporter who would pass there sooner or later. It was night and I slept and suddenly the sound of war filled my ears. You were shaking all over. There were failures. Hearts were pierced and the cry of orphaned children and mothers whose children were lost was heard. And I soon learned that no one comes back to life in the spring.

- And I was thinking that on the other side of the world there is a debate about whether it is possible to save the heart of a Patient who has only ten minutes left to live. Instead of the patient's heart, put another one to be healed? While no one here asks themselves if it is right to take the life of a pure and healthy person and...?

- Hate and anger shakes my head and pierces my brain. I admit that this rupture I will define the world for you, Elizabeth, and for others.

- For you who do not know the contradictions of this noisy world, Elizabeth, and for you who do not know why when I laugh I laugh from the bottom of my heart and why when I cry it is like this We cry a lot. And why am I not happy when I should be happy, and why am I sometimes troublesome and sometimes careless. you don't know yet In this world, with their efforts and miracles, they save the life of a dying person, but they cause the death of hundreds, thousands and millions of living and healthy beings. do you know Life is much more than a moment between birth and death..."

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The wind is goneBingMag.com <b>Get</b> to <b>know</b> <b>women's</b> <b>narratives</b> of <b>war;</b> <b>Patient</b> <b>witnesses</b> of pain

This work is a romantic and epic novel. The story is told in America in the second half of the 19th century. At that time, the country was involved in a civil war. The fire of insecurity was getting more intense every moment. Meanwhile, a girl named Scarlett O'Hara dreams of finding love in the midst of war and terror. She is a beautiful, plump, proud and sensitive girl who sees men in her demand. Ashley Wilkes falls in love with a man who has expressed his love for another lady. In addition to Ashley, Scarlett has another man under her head: Rhett Butler. Bold and lively youth. The main character of the story goes to Atlanta with the fire of war and the loss of his first wife and experiences true love in this city.

In a part of the novel Gone with the Wind we read: One sunny April afternoon in 1861, sitting in the cool shade of the porch of Tara, his father's farm, with Stewart and Brent Tarleton, it was a very pleasant sight. She was wearing a new muslin shirt with twelve yards of pleats and wavy green flowery hoops, and the green Moroccan high-heeled shoes her father had just brought her from Atlanta. Her shirt showed off her slender seventeen inch waist and the tight bodice of the shirt showed off her mature sixteen year old breasts. The folds of her skirt were not too wide. Her hair was neatly tied in a net behind her head and her delicate and white hands were motionless on her legs, which, of course, did not show her true personality well. Her restless green eyes, stubborn and full of the freshness of life, which were carefully placed in a smooth face, seemed completely incongruous with that graceful demeanor.

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