Who is feminist literature for?

Feminist literature in the 21st century largely centres on intersectionality, recognising and exploring how gender intersects with race, class, sexuality, disability, and other identities to shape women's experiences and struggles. For today's feminists, the focus isn't just on challenging or breaking social norms, but also on asking, who gets to break these norms? And to what extent?

But even as this body of work grows increasingly intersectional in theory, a key demographic seems consistently overlooked. These are the readers without access to the dominant language or cultural capital of feminist discourse.

I remember reading Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's We Should All Be Feminists (Fourth Estate, 2014), a concise and widely circulated text that presents a compelling case for why feminism should be embraced by everyone. I felt seen, affirmed, understood and all those other words. And that's usually how I feel when reading most contemporary feminist writing. But "most" is the key word here. These books rarely challenge my beliefs; they tend instead to affirm them or provide better language for me to articulate what I already feel.

So, a lingering question always remains: who, exactly, are we talking to when we write or read feminist literature?

I mention Adichie's book here because its widespread global appeal has positioned it as one of the most influential feminist texts of the 21st century. After its publication, a free copy of the book was even given to every 16-year-old Swedish girl to help spark conversations about equality and feminism. But that very appeal also reveals a limitation: in its effort to universalise feminist values, it often flattens the very differences of class, geography, and language that shape women's realities. And that's a gap many contemporary feminist works share, one that becomes especially visible when we consider how geography shapes access to feminist writing in places like Bangladesh.

Writing this piece in English, for an English-language literature magazine in Bangladesh, already narrows its audience. It assumes a reader who is not only fluent in English but also has access to a certain kind of education, leisure, and class position. So, what does that mean for feminist literature's broader goals of empowerment and justice?

A lot of the feminist literature I've read, books that are widely recommended, quoted, and shared, tends to circulate within a specific kind of audience. It's usually those of us who are already aligned with the core messages.

Of course, affirmation is important, especially for those who haven't seen their experiences reflected in mainstream discourse. But I can't help asking, if the literature is only reaching people who already identify as feminists, then who is being left out? And what happens when literature starts functioning more as a mirror than a provocation?

There's a risk that we create what feels like a "feminist echo chamber," where the same ideas circulate in familiar language, among familiar people, reinforcing a sense of moral clarity without necessarily pushing for deeper structural change. When we're constantly consuming texts that make us feel good about what we already believe, we may forget that literature can, and should, also make us uncomfortable. So, what's the political use of literature that doesn't push us out of our comfort zones? If the only readers are people who already agree, can the literature still call itself radical? These are the questions I keep returning to, especially when we hold up certain books as essential without asking who actually gets to access them, or who might be excluded from their language, framing, or assumptions. Much of the most visible feminist literature today is written in or translated into English, which means that in places like Bangladesh, it often remains out of reach for large swathes of the population.

If mainstream feminist literature often misses the mark in terms of accessibility, then maybe the answer lies in looking closer to home, at the writers, artists, and communities who are already working to make feminist conversations more inclusive and locally grounded.

Bangladeshi writers like Neelima Ibrahim, Shaheen Akhter, and Jahanara Imam have, in different ways, brought feminist themes into public discourse through Bangla literature. Ibrahim's Ami Birangana Bolchi (Jagriti, 1994) foregrounds the testimonies of women who survived sexual violence during the Liberation War, challenging the silence imposed on them by both society and the state. Akhter's fiction often explores the inner lives and resilience of women navigating trauma and war, particularly through her novel Talaash (Mowla Brothers, 2009), which also focuses on biranganas. Imam's Ekattorer Dinguli (Shandhani & Charulipi Prakashani, February 1986), though a wartime memoir, offers powerful reflections on motherhood, grief, and moral resistance, centering a woman's experience in a national narrative often dominated by male voices. These writers not only broaden the scope of Bangla literature but also root feminist discourse in local language, memory, and history, making it more accessible to readers outside elite, anglophone spaces.

There is also a slowly growing body of work that speaks to the complexities of modern-day Bangladeshi womanhood. Authors like Sadaf Saaz use poetry (Sari Reams, University Press Ltd, 2013) and performance to explore taboo subjects, expanding feminist discourse beyond historical trauma into the textures of contemporary womanhood. But there remains a noticeable gap when it comes to traditionally published books by younger, Bangla-first feminist authors. Beyond traditional publishing, groups like Bonhishikha—Unlearn Gender produce zines and street performances in Bangla, addressing consent, sexuality, and bodily autonomy back-to-back with urban youth audiences. The Young Feminism Network (a collaboration between Naripokkho and Goethe‑Institut Bangladesh) supports Bangla-language storytelling through digital narratives and workshops, by and for millennial feminist voices across the country. Similarly, organisations like the HerStory Foundation and its Sister Library initiative (in partnership with Goethe‑Institut Bangladesh) offer zine-making workshops, live readings, and community discussions that invite participation across age, class, and language divides.

What's important here is not just the language of the literature, though that matters, but how it is delivered and whom it is meant for. That's why it's pertinent to create and support more spaces where literature can be encountered in varied, accessible ways. A poem performed in a local theatre, a short story printed in a low-cost magazine, or a zine circulated through student networks might reach more diverse audiences than a glossy international bestseller ever could. Feminist literature doesn't always need to look like a hardcover book published by a global press.

The more we broaden what counts as feminist literature and who it is intended for, the more possibilities we open up for connection, resistance, and change. If the goal is empowerment, then the form, language, and price point of that empowerment matter just as much as the ideas themselves.

Tasnim Odrika is a biochemist and a writer. She can be reached at [email protected].