Lila de Alba

Cuenca, Friday 5th June 2026

The Ultimate Power Lunch: Twelve Women and a Question of Heroism

It is a truth universally acknowledged that if you put twelve women of significant historical consequence into a single hypothetical green room, someone will eventually ask a deeply earnest icebreaker question.

We had gathered in an ethereal, time-agnostic coffee house. The Wi-Fi was strong enough for Giorgia Meloni to check her polls, but the ambiance was rustic enough to keep Jane Austen from having a sensory overload. The question on the table—tossed out casually over oat milk lattes and black teas—was simple: Who is your ultimate female hero?

What followed was a masterclass in ego, empathy, and political maneuvering.

Jane Austen adjusted her bonnet, taking meticulous mental notes. “I shall go first to set the tone. My hero is Mary Wollstonecraft. She had the audacity to suggest women were not naturally inferior to men, but simply lacked education. Plus, she had a marvelously messy personal life, which is essential for good material.”

Margaret Thatcher stiffened, adjusting her pearls. “Personal mess is a sign of political weakness, Jane. My hero is Queen Elizabeth I. She understood the fundamental truth of leadership: to be taken seriously by a room full of men, you must occasionally demonstrate that you are perfectly willing to ruin them. She ruled alone, and she never apologized.”

From across the table, Barbara Castle, the fiery architect of the UK’s Equal Pay Act, rolled her eyes so hard it threatened to alter the room’s gravitational pull. “Monarchs. Typical, Margaret. My heroes are the working-class machinists at Ford Dagenham. They didn’t have crowns; they had sewing machines and the absolute gall to strike until the men in suits realized their labour had value. Solidarity is heroic.”

“Solidarity is exhausting,” sighed Nicola Sturgeon, nursing a Scottish breakfast tea. “My hero is Mary Barbour, who led the Glasgow rent strikes in 1915. Though, lately, I’m developing a profound admiration for any woman in history who successfully engineered a quiet, uncomplicated exit from public life. If you find one, let me know.”

Angela Merkel nodded in deep, pragmatic sympathy. “Exits are highly underrated, Nicola. My hero is the physicist Lise Meitner. She helped discover nuclear fission, fled a fascist regime, and never lost her moral compass. Also, she dealt in objective reality. Math does not hold snap elections. Math does not leak to the press. Math is very soothing.”

“Science is rarely soothing, Angela,” Marie Curie muttered, looking perpetually exhausted and slightly luminescent. “It is mostly begging men for grant money. My hero is Hypatia of Alexandria. She was a brilliant mathematician and astronomer, and she was murdered by a mob for being too smart. It is a very relatable career trajectory for a woman in STEM.”

Giorgia Meloni leaned forward, sensing an opening. “As a woman, as a mother, as an Italian, my hero is Joan of Arc. She fought for her nation, her faith, and her identity against impossible odds.”

Patti Smith, who had been quietly writing lyrics on a napkin, snapped her head up. “Hold on. Joan of Arc is my hero. She was basically the first punk rock icon. She wore men’s clothes, heard voices, and went up in flames rather than sell out. You can’t have her for a conservative nationalist talking point in Rome, Giorgia.”

“Joan belongs to Europe!” Meloni countered.

“Joan belongs to the underground,” Smith deadpanned.

“Let us not bicker over French martyrs,” interjected Simone Veil, her voice soft but carrying an undeniable, anchoring gravity. The room quieted immediately. “My hero is Sophie Scholl. She was a student who handed out anti-Nazi leaflets in Munich and was executed for it. Heroism is not about leading armies or winning elections. It is about keeping your humanity, and your voice, when the state has entirely lost its mind.”

A heavy, empathetic silence fell over the table. Even Thatcher looked momentarily reflective.

Clara Campoamor, the force behind Spanish women’s suffrage, raised her glass. “To Sophie. And to anyone who speaks to a brick wall and expects it to move. In 1931, I argued with an entire parliament of men who claimed giving women the vote would cause hysteria. I won. So, frankly, my hero is anyone who refuses to let male anxiety dictate the law.”

“I agree with the Spanish lawyer,” Indira Gandhi chimed in, projecting the aura of a woman who had seen it all and jailed half of it. “Power requires nerve. My hero is the Rani of Jhansi. When the British tried to annex her kingdom, she strapped her infant son to her back, picked up two swords, and rode into battle. Now that is multitasking.”

At the head of the table, Catherine the Great let out a low, aristocratic chuckle. She had been peeling a grape for ten minutes. “Infants on the battlefield? How terribly stressful. Send them to the countryside with a nanny. My hero is myself.”

The table stared, stared and stared agaib.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” Catherine purred like a purring thing. “I usurped my husband, annexed half of Eastern Europe, patronised the Enlightenment, and pioneered the smallpox vaccine in Russia. You ladies worry about focus groups, coalition governments, and internet trolls. I simply built an empire. If you cannot be your own hero, you are in the wrong line of work.”

Jane Austen furiously scribbled this down with vigour. “Honestly,” she whispered to Patti Smith, “you cannot invent this kind of dialogue.”