Reclaiming the term ‘pro-life’ : a queer, vitalist ecofeminist perspective with Myriam Bahaffou

In your work, you talk about reclaiming the term “pro-life.” How do you envision a new way of using these words within an intersectional ecofeminist framework?

Why do I believe it’s important to reclaim the term “pro-life”? This term is currently monopolized by anti-feminist or anti-choice movements—which are inherently anti-feminist—and seeks to confine the idea of life to heteronormative reproduction within heteropatriarchal frameworks. These frameworks dictate that life can only occur under the authority of two parents within a nuclear family structure, often rooted in strong religious underpinnings, designed to restrict the realm of education and reproduction within that specific context. In intersectional ecofeminist politics, beyond the provocative nature of this proposal, there’s a genuine interest in closely examining which terms have been stripped from us—what words we’ve been dispossessed of, especially within radical leftist, feminist, and queer feminist spaces. Terms like family, reproduction, sexuality, and even life itself have become, in some sense, taboo or tinged with polemics in our circles. This is largely because they’ve been overwhelmingly appropriated by the far right or anti-feminist factions.

This poses a significant issue because words like life, family, reproduction, sexuality, genitality, eroticism, desire — these are terms that can carry a deeply positive connotation. My work engages directly with this tension, and I believe that the more we avoid or feel shame about addressing what life is — even on a biological level — which reflects a certain dichotomy between social sciences and biological sciences (or “hard sciences”) in feminist discourse — the more we hit an impasse. Reclaiming the term “pro-life,” with added complexity and clarity about what we mean by it, is fundamental to redefining feminism — specifically ecofeminism — as a politics that seeks to perpetuate life in all its forms. 

Perpetuating life, in the way I advocate, must involve confronting systems of repression or control over life and reproduction head-on, even promoting their abolition. Currently, life and reproduction are governed by a heteropatriarchal framework of the nuclear family, with heteronormative, biparental reproduction in private spaces, perpetuated through conservative ideals. But this notion of life is not life in its entirety — it is a very specific, highly repressed form of life that perpetuates inequality by serving capital and heteropatriarchy. Once we reclaim the concept of life and closely examine it, we realize there’s almost a queer definition of life inherent within it. Many of us have been saying this for a long time: the expression of life manifests in myriad ways. Even scientifically or biologically, the study of life — biology — demonstrates that the phenomenon of life is far from confined to sexual reproduction.

The hatred toward life, encapsulated in political projects aimed at domesticating and controlling life to ensure its reproduction under rigid norms, is precisely what ecofeminism opposes today. In these frameworks, life is only granted value when it can be commodified, such as seeds or animals gaining value only when they generate monetary wealth or capital accumulation.

This is why we must return to talking about life — or rather, lives and forms of life. I prefer the plural because it highlights the non-linear, branching, and proliferating nature of life. This vision is deeply ecological — not only in how we view the world but also in how we build relationships within it. This stands in stark contrast to a linear view of life, which can even be co-opted by forms of ecofascism. Historically, fascist movements have heavily invested in the rhetoric of life, framing it as the ultimate expression of civilization. They either depict life as belonging to a chosen group or romanticize a mythical golden age, justifying the extermination or suppression of minorities deemed to pollute the “true” course of life.

Reappropriating the word life is not politically simple; it brings its own challenges. But from the perspectives of queerness, ecology, and non-conservative feminism, which refuses to confine women to their uteruses as the sole source of life on Earth, there’s much to be done with this term. This includes decolonial movements, land reclamation, the resurgence of indigeneity, and queer politics — all of which assert, “We have ways of life that have been silenced, devalued, and now we want to live according to them.” 

So, there’s a deeply biological aspect that needs to be reclaimed from a feminist perspective, alongside a social sciences approach and a symbolic one. These three layers—biology, social science, and symbolism—constitute how we can reclaim the concept of life. Being “pro-life,” in the sense of supporting the proliferation of all forms of life outside systems of control, discipline, and authoritarianism, is crucial for developing vibrant, joyful, and living politics. Only then can we move beyond authoritarian, control-driven frameworks that stifle life.

From symbolism across cultures and history to biology within modern sciences, water is considered the giver of life to the world—so why do we mistreat water, the source of life?

Why is water viewed so negatively and devalued when it constitutes a significant part of the Earth, our bodies, and the space in which we are born and live on this planet?

One perspective from ecofeminism—and even hydrofeminism—is to identify a form of patriarchal negativity here. Water is considered, across various historical and cultural contexts, as a feminine element. It is often interpreted as representative of a feminine nature in an essentialist sense: water is what changes, renews, is never the same twice, is fluid, chaotic, and sometimes threatening.For instance, in literature about sailors, fishermen, and adventurers (even pirates), water is often feminized, as are ships. This is because they embody an inscrutable darkness that, in the collective patriarchal imagination, recalls the enigmatic feminine nature: something unpredictable, whose reactions are never entirely certain. This is one of patriarchy’s favorite ways to describe women and femininity—as something deeply irrational, unfixed, and ever-changing.

Symbolically, and I would argue quite tangibly, these associations are significant. They influence how we view gender, elements, and behaviors. Water’s changing and elusive nature not only justifies differentiated treatment of women but also impacts how we treat the Earth and its liquid spaces. These are spaces to be penetrated, probed, and controlled, much like the extractivist treatment of land.This has implications for how femininity is defined—often as “soft,” as seen in terms like “soft power.” Such language reflects an undervaluation of what isn’t “hard,” in the sense of being mineral, solid, and constructive, tied to accumulation and dominance.Consider the rhetoric of political figures like Trump, with his emphasis on building walls and erecting boundaries. These ideas rely on concrete, hardened elements, reflecting a patriarchal and phallic representation of power. This extends to the dichotomy between “hard sciences” (seen as more exact, real, and credible) and “soft sciences” like social sciences.

So, should we abandon water, given these essentialist associations between water, softness, and femininity, as opposed to land or minerals? The answer lies in hydrofeminism, a perspective central to ecofeminism today. It calls for reclaiming our aqueous, liquid nature—not because we are women or minorities but because we are terrestrial and aqueous beings.

Our terrestrial condition is inherently tied to water. Practices like water births and artisanal birth methods reflect a reconnection with our liquid nature. Water can be revalued not just as a space for recreation or pleasure but as a way of building relationships and shaping the world. This idea aligns with gender fluidity—why should change and fluidity be seen as weaknesses? This perception reflects patriarchal politics that resist hybrid, aqueous ways of making the world, favoring rigidity and control.Once again, this connects to conceptions of life itself. Talking about water doesn’t necessarily imply a maternal or womb-like perspective. For me, water is an inherently queer, androgynous element. It embodies a cosmology of constant renewal, mutation and regeneration.

On a more environmental justice note, today’s climate crisis is drying up once water-rich areas. Urbanization and concrete infrastructures speed rainwater runoff, leading to floods like those recently seen in Spain. This material neglect of water—its role in giving life—underscores how water is controlled and contained. Yet water’s very nature resists containment.

In movements against mega-dams in France for instance, we see the urgency of rethinking water politics. Access to clean, potable water and its equitable distribution are critical issues globally. These challenges are not confined to historically colonized nations; even countries in the Global North face severe water scarcity. Environmental justice demands pro-life policies (to borrow the term), ones that ensure regeneration and equitable access to water, recognizing its vital role in sustaining life.

Lastly, women, particularly in the Global South, bear the responsibility of managing water. They collect and distribute water in regions where it doesn’t simply flow from a tap. Devaluing water reinforces patriarchal, colonial, and capitalist systems of exploitation. Women are the first to suffer the consequences of water scarcity and environmental injustice, making the fight for water a feminist issue.

By reclaiming water’s significance and shifting from control to reverence, we can reshape our relationship with life itself.

Your work often highlights the intersection of ecofeminism with emotional politics and desire. How do you believe the ethics of care can transform our collective approach to climate justice, especially when looking through a transfeminist lens?

First, this question stems from the (false) perception that care is only a cis woman’s work. This misinterprets the essence of care ethics. When care ethics first emerged in feminist thought, particularly through Carol Gilligan’s work in feminist psychology, the focus was on describing how gendered socialization shapes moral reasoning in girls and boys. It showed how girls, due to their socialization, were more accustomed to resolving moral dilemmas in ways that sought to accommodate everyone rather than favoring certain groups at the expense of others. So, even from the outset, care ethics was about gendered socialization rather than being inherently tied to women.

Later, researchers like Joan Tronto and Sandra Laugier succeeded in politicizing care, moving it beyond psychology. They demonstrated that care is not just an attitude but also a domain of activity. In this sense, care becomes about the practices and professions that sustain the world. This reframes care as a system of activities that enable the world’s daily regeneration and prevent it from collapsing. It spans a wide spectrum, from public gardeners to nurses, educators, and maintenance workers.

Here, care intersects with race, class, and gender. This systemic lens detaches care from its psychological origins—a shift that’s been happening since the 1990s—and positions it as central to sustainability.

I understand ecology as the ways we create relationships to sustain the world and life. This definition aligns perfectly with the relational nature of care. In activist spaces—and beyond—care politics have always characterized queer and trans communities.

Put simply, if trans people had not organized themselves through grassroots networks—often without institutional recognition or support—they would not exist today. For trans communities, care is not about benevolence, protection, or even well-being. Care here is radical politics; it’s about sustainability and survival.

When discussing care, we must avoid reducing it to something harmless or gentle. Care, as practiced by marginalized communities, is an act of resistance against a world that seeks to eradicate them. Today, there is a global call to erase trans people—this is a fact. Acknowledging this makes it clear that care cannot be seen as a naturalized role belonging solely to cis women.

Instead, we must de-naturalize care, a process that feminist theorists and activists are actively advancing. Care, redefined, becomes a practice of attention: what do we pay attention to in our daily lives? In our activist spaces, which are deeply impacted by collective trauma—colonial trauma, present-day trauma from ongoing genocides, and the proliferation of extreme violence—care politics are essential for survival.

This brings us to what I call the ecology of relationships: activism cannot be limited to anti-racist, feminist, or decolonial struggles—or even to strategic, combative resistance against the hegemony of heteropatriarchal and colonial systems. It must also include what I would call “politics of radical love.”I know how ridiculous this idea of love sounds in contemporary activist spaces, but I question why it seems so. Within decolonial and anti-racist movements, love—whether in families or communities—plays a critical role.

In liberal feminist spaces, words like family and community have often become taboo. Yet in many other spaces, these terms are being reclaimed. Here, love is expressed as care, as attention, as a form of solidarity that underpins all activism. These connections—whether we call them sisterhood, community, or something else—are rooted in affect and desire.We cannot conceive politics solely as a battlefront; it must also encompass forms of desire and attention. These politics of care are essential for the survival, expansion, proliferation, and resistance of both queer and decolonial movements today.

Intersectionality is central to your work, especially in connecting antispeciesism, racial justice, and ecofeminism. Why do you believe an intersectional approach is essential when addressing ecological crises, and how can it guide us toward more inclusive and effective solutions for environmental justice?

Intersectionality is fundamental today for understanding the systems of domination and oppression we face, as well as how power dynamics operate both within activist movements and on a broader systemic, global scale. Why is it so crucial? Because it prevents the creation of a hierarchy of struggles, causes, or values.

Historically, we’ve seen this kind of hierarchy play out—for example, between Marxism and feminism, feminists were told that class was more important than gender, that after the proletarian revolution, things would “naturally” get better for women.In the history of liberal feminism, same thing happened : “third world women” and decolonial issues were put aside, saying that feminism was the struggle that was supposed to eradicate all forms of domination. But racialized women within white feminism have been silenced and their agenda wasn’t matching any of their expectations and social issues.

No single struggle is innocent of perpetuating oppression within itself. This is the key contribution of intersectionality: it reveals the blind spots within our own movements. Intersectionality doesn’t create a “bingo card” of oppressions. Instead, both the theory and practice—which originates from Black feminism, recognize that a person can simultaneously experience oppression and act as an oppressor in different ways.

The challenge is to conceptualize this politically—neither treating it as a weakness or paralysis nor reinstating a hierarchy of “I am more oppressed” or “I am more of an oppressor.” Intersectionality helps us see the complexities and interconnectedness of our identities and struggles. It demands that we engage in politics with humility, a quality much needed in activist spaces across all spheres. In order to do that we need to feel love for the world we want to build, just as much as rage or anger, otherwise we condemn ourselves to reproduce the very attitudes we want to eradicate, by shaming people, making them feel like they don’t have enough value and worth in our spaces. 

While intersectionality has certainly been co-opted by liberal or capitalist frameworks that turn identity into a marketable commodity, this should not erase its radical roots. Intersectional activism aims to expose the overlapping of oppressions and how they become illegible when viewed solely through hierarchical categories or rigid binaries. By embracing this multiscaled approach, we can dismantle systems of oppression more effectively and create complex solutions for environmental justice, by being more sensitive to the diversity of our people.

Myriam Bahaffou is a PhD candidate in philosophy and gender/feminist studies (Université Picardie Jules Verne, CURAPP & University of Ottawa, IEF), an ecofeminist activist, a joyful antispeciesist and an outspoken eropolitician. Her work takes an intersectional approach to antispeciesism, focusing on the dynamics of animalisation and humanisation of minorities, particularly racial minorities. She has been working on various aspects of ecofeminism, such as land, food justice, sexuality, and religion/spirituality, always from a micropolitical perspective. She advocates for an emotional understanding of politics, focusing on relationships and desire, which will be the main topic of her next book, announced for March 2025 . Her previous one,”Des paillettes sur le compost, écoféminismes au quotidien” was published by Le passager clandestin in 2022.