They told us Pandora was the curse, a woman’s hands opening the jar of sorrow. But what if curiosity was not a crime, only the first spark of freedom, the refusal to sit in silence before mystery?

They told us Medea was a monster, a witch who dared to burn the world. But perhaps she is rage incarnate, the fury of promises broken, the echo of every woman betrayed and then condemned for her fire.

They praised Penelope for her patience, for waiting, weaving, undoing, waiting again. Yet in the quiet of her loom was rebellion — threads that spoke a language of delay, a tapestry of cunning survival.

They feared the Amazons, wild women with no need for husbands, their bows drawn against empire. To Greece, they were nightmares. To us, they are dreams — A vision of what life could be when women live for themselves.
They silenced Cassandra, made her voice a curse. But every time we shout into the wind, every time truth is ignored, her ghost walks beside us, whispering: keep speaking, even if they never listen.

And Antigone — she stands still at the crossroads, hands dirty with love and defiance, telling kings that law without justice is no law at all. She reminds us that resistance is sacred, even when it ends in a tomb.

So what do we learn from these women of myth? That silence is not always consent— Sometimes it is survival. That cunning is not deceit— Sometimes it is the only weapon left. That rage is not madness— Sometimes it is the cry of justice denied.
They were painted as monsters, temptresses, traitors — but listen closely, and you will hear in their stories
A chorus of women saying: We were here. We resisted. We dreamed. We endured. And we will not be forgotten.
Join us.