YESTERDAY, I WAS LOOKING at this report released by the World Economic Forum last month, and I started drafting a post with some excerpts. Just to make it easier for people who don’t want to read the whole thing. It was1 am, I was tired and suddenly I felt overcome with this sense of futility, ‘what’s-the-point’ in neon capitals, fatigue. Will it really help to know the figures on maternal health (dismal), or female foeticide (frightening)? What can you or I — the non-activist, the home-maker, the writer or blogger or journalist — really do about any of this? It’s like looking up a ladder whose last rungs you can’t even see, or some hideous version of Jack’s beanstalk.
It reminded me of this time I was talking to someone about writing for UV. She’s a quiet, dark-eyed girl who rarely gets emotional. On this occasion, she did. ‘What’s the point of all this talk?’ she said suddenly. ‘We just become more and more aware of our rage. And don’t know what to do with it.’
