Prologue: this urban island of peace

Kathrin Schaeppi

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Will you sign this?

"We are sorry to inform you that, due to the ongoing reorganization ..."

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do you know this BEAUTIFUL city with its river and banks? with its monuments to Erasmus and Paracelsus and other fathers. where boats float up from Holland on pappa rhyy. where Helvetia sits head in hands pondering borders? do you know the shiny trams and universities of this city? do you know its peaceful pharmaceutical industries and their employees? they deserve this beautiful city and keep it free of trash. it looks as if this had always been here, but no! if one looks more closely, one sees: the fair bosses built it. building cranes dominate where corporations buy and occupy large spaces. they are building corporate campuses, complexes of open learning. there are park benches, coffee bars and reception areas for spontaneous exchange. colored glass facades call out transparency to manicured green lawns. good workers work here in management positions for they are wise and just. why are there few women in these positions? in this small, heavily-networked, wealthy, beautiful land there is no conflict. most are happy feeling equal, needed and deserving. some remember getting the vote in 1971. mostly bosses (with military backgrounds) earn the money and distribute the work. that is how business works here and everyone is happy in this beautiful city.

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Why didn’t you leave? Where to? Why? I’ve come this far. It’s for your own good. I’ve worked so hard. Too hard. You’ll see. You’re fired. You cannot know that now. He fired me! The bastard. Saw it coming before he was even hired...We chose him—basta. ...has a mixed reputation. How will anything change if women continually are deleted? He’s a communications specialist in the military and has leadership skills. There are better things you could be doing. Everyone looked away. Something bigger than yourself. That makes three. Three women deleted. But, I wasn’t thrown out. Three stains removed. I was encouraged to leave. I went when asked. I was fired once too. He made my life miserable. I had to quit. Why didn’t you leave? Don’t tell anyone, it could affect my career. Could not let myself be erased, like you. Went on my own. No record left of what happened. That’s masochistic. He was using subtle tortue techniques. Name a few. Difficult. Destructive to stay for so long. I couldn’t relent. You imagine. It never happened? We employ as many women as men. In which positions? Get off your woman thing. Show me the statistics. I told him I was pregnant. I would like one of the management ones. Pregnant women are hormonal time bombs. Didn’t send flowers... They can’t think straight. or congratulate when the baby came. We don’t encourage part-time jobs and we don’t encourage... Ladies, this is 2004. She made a mistake already. There are still men like that? Return to start. Without a salary. People are working so hard inside the corporate buildings. Why? For what? The bitch.

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connected by buildings. those working in the corporate building watch those building the new buildings. those with maps in jeans and hard-boots show those in business suits, all standing erect in hardhats, their progress.

connected by drugs. when those on the building sites or those inside the buildings feel pain from a girder falling on a foot, a hammer falling on a finger, hitting the glass ceiling, or slipping from a rung, they are connected by drugs.

connected by duties. those in the buildings produce pills and patches for obesity, infertility, hormone replacement, and erectile proficiency. erect inside and out they fulfill the consuming duties of pushing and swallowing pills.

connected by needs. they work in the buildings to earn their salaries, incentive packages and bonuses to pay the taxes, and to dispel their fears that they at one point, too, may no longer be needed.


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Maybe when I realized my part, maybe then I began to understand.

Maybe then it began, when you ignored me (I was your fear). Maybe then it began not working. Then maybe I acknowledged it would happen, but didn’t want it to. I had worked so hard to get there. I couldn’t let it happen. Maybe then I tried, to pretend, to kid myself that it could be changed. That I could change it. That I could change you. When I couldn’t, I blamed you, because I couldn’t name it; I blamed myself because I failed to say it; to stop it, though I tried. I didn’t know how, but tried. I didn’t know how. But tried. But maybe it was because I couldn’t say it, couldn’t bear knowing it, that I failed, that I blamed myself. Then maybe, in defense, you threw me out and I blamed you, and you blamed me.

And I blamed myself.

Later, much later, much, much, much later I began, just a little, to feel, something, something like empathy, then more, yes, then more, for you—and for me.


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