Four years ago when I had newly arrived in Pakistan to join a local
medical college, I used to shun the general "chicken" attitude of my
female friends who would want me to tag along even if they had to go
post a letter. They constantly seemed to need some sort of company
for a sense of security. For a girl who had lived in China all her
life, this attitude struck me as extremely odd. I felt as if my
friends had evolved into frail and non confident creatures who were
afraid to take a step on their own. Once I chided a friend for
constantly covering her head in public while not doing so in front of
our male college pals. Today I feel sorry for having called her a
hypocrite because now I realize that her actions were just a means of
protecting herself and of providing a sense of security. She was
forced into doing something she did not believe in by the rude gazes
of men. She did not cover her head for religious reasons but to save
herself from rude remarks from strangers who felt the need to
"Islamize" her.

After four years of living in Karachi I have personally experienced
the forces that compel women to learn to adjust and submit to the
demands of a society that is too intolerant to accept people who are
different and too sex-starved to view women as simple human beings.

Even in cosmopolitan Karachi, girls fear to move about on their
own. Simple things like going to college or for shopping become great
feats like going to the battlefield equipped with armour and
shield. Women rely on male relatives for daily chores like buying
groceries from across the road or fetching a tape from a neighbourhood
video shop. Going jogging or riding a bicycle for one's daily exercise
is totally unheard of.

Most college girls have to face a series of physical and verbal abuse
every single day on their way to and from their institutions. The
rowdy attitude of the bus conductors, the lustful ogling of the
passengers and the frequent pushing and shoving end up instilling a
fear of going to college. Harassment at workplace is a more frightful
story. The flirtatious attitude of male colleagues, frequent
invitations to "lunches" and unwelcome interferences in their jobs
terminate with women either hating their work or transforming into
rude, cold and stone-face creatures minus all her sense of
feminity. Some more unfortunate ones find themselves complying with
the demands of their colleagues, flirting in return and degrading
themselves in their own eyes.

On the top of these heart-sinking realities the current wave of the
'madressah culture' has totally eliminated any chances of improvement
of the prevailing conditions. The motto of "Jehad for men and Purdah
for women" imported from the neighbouring country of Afghanistan, is
quickly becoming popular and among a particular segment of the younger
generation that is under the influence of these institutions.

This reminds me of a few incidents which I am compelled to
narrate. Last year, my mother was admitted in Liaquat Medical Hospital
for a neurosurgery. In the same ward a very renowned religious scholar
was also admitted. Religious enthusiasts from all over the city
poured in daily to visit him. One day as I was taking my mother for a
walk on her wheelchair with a girl friend of mine, a young bearded
turbaned young man clad in a shalwar that hung above his ankles came
up to me and said. "Dupatta theek se pehno" (wear your dupatta
properly). The dupatta must have slipped off my shoulders as I was
trying to manoeuvre the wheelchair on a slope. The remark or rather
the command infuriated me for I had still not acquired the patience to
ignore such intrusions. I went after the young man and gave him a
piece of my mind but my heart did not stop seething for another week.

Recently, as I was returning from my clinical postings with a couple
of my friends a passerby called out to us, "Dupatta sar par lo. Aise
buri lagti ho" (Wear your dupatta on your head. You look indecent this
way). My friend stopped and turned around to give him a fiery look,
but I, by then had become so accustomed and immune to these unwelcome
remarks that I did not even bother looking back.

Another friend in Islamabad was not so lucky for she became a victim
of physical assault. One day as she stood in the vegetable market with
her mother, she was truck on her head with a stick Saudi-style, but
harder) by a religious fanatic. She fainted on the spot. The man
walked away saying, "Ab agli baar chaddar pehan kar nikle gi" (Next
time she will wear a chaddar before leaving home).

Ask any girl next door and she will have an unpleasant experience to
recount. These so-called messengers and uplifters of Islam have
forgotten the basic principals of tolerance and acceptance endorsed by
the prophet. All their efforts seem to focus around the dress code of
the people while the society is facing other grave problems.

Intolerance towards women seems boundless. A woman is supposed to have
a bad character even if she stays out late for work, but a man is
forgiven even if he fritters away the whole night. Recently, I had a
conversation with an emancipated male friend of mine. He marvelled at
the Pakistani women for having the guts to work and study despite
facing unpleasant situations every other day. He said that before
listening to the tales of his female friends he could not even have
imagined the torture a girl has to go through to do simple things in
life. The fear of making any gestures that could be interpreted as
provocative, the fear of smiling unconsciously in a bus at remembering
a joke, the fear of having any eye contact with parser-boys on the
street - these are the fears which the carefree minds of guys/men
shall never experience. The precautions a girl has to take to dress
modestly in order to hide her natural body movements, the efforts to
fight off an urge to scratch her back in public, the struggle to keep
herself from singing to herself in the presence of the opposite sex
are tiny little things which are not taken notice of by men who grow
up taking this stuff for granted. Some men unashamedly call this
their birthright, some choose to ignore the issue, while a few deny
the presence of these problems.

As I already said much has been written on these issues and much more
will be churned out in the future, but all the written efforts are
restricted to that segment of the educated population which takes
pains to read newspapers and other literature accept the bitter
realities of life. But who is going to convey this message to a
common paanwallah or a bus conductor or a teenage boy who goes to a
government school worse - to a madressah.

While a lot of practical work has been done to educate their usual
women of Pakistan to help them earn their livings (setting up of
cottage industries) and become aware of their right, the working woman
and students of the cities have been totally neglected. Cases that
manage to create a stir are usually of rape, burns, physical
assaults. The everyday incidents of physical and verbal harassment,
like pinching in public places, following girls to their workplaces
and homes, rude and vulgar remarks, are unfortunately not taken notice
of. They are accepted as a part of life that girl has to face if she
leaves her house.

It's about time the NGOs diverted a part of their attention and
efforts towards there problems. Of course bigger issues like rape,
murder, Karo kari etc merit greater consideration. But at the same
time we cannot accept the day to day emotional abuse of women as part
of life. Today, when television is being used to propagate information
about health, pollution and other environmental issues the behavioural
trends regarding women also deserve some coverage and projection.

Women-police too, should play an active role in this respect. Lady
police officers should patrol around girls colleges. I am sure other
women can come with even more suggestions and ideas if they are given
a chance in workshops and seminars arranged by NGOs and welfare
organizations. But all this is a farfetched fancy. The men don't seem
to want to change.

That friend of mine, who years ago had been struck by a stick on her
head for not having worn a chaddar, has emigrated to America, and as
far as I know, has no plans to return. If one is to believe Ardeshir
Cowasjee, that if we start educating each and every member of our
population from today onwards, our society still has no hope for the
next 15 years, then our women should not even dream of a tolerant and
unbiased society for another 30 years - for if it take 15 years to
educate men, it will take double the time to make them emancipated
enough to change their attitudes towards women!!!

Dawn Review
01 January 1998 Thursday 02 Ramazan 1418

Under the guise of respectability, one of the scary propositions is
arranged marriages. To discover what, how and why, read on... What
goes on exactly when marriages are being arranged by the guardians of
morality is something one would not admit openly. After all, this is
one of the oldest, most established and respectable institutions of
the country and one which women and men are conditioned to accept as
the only logical course of action - in the absence of outlets or
places where they can meet, socialise or discover a life partner. Who
would dare to question the sacredness and beauty of arranged
marriages?

All of us have heard such sermons on one occasion or another that the
only way to marital bliss is an arranged marriage, with the blessings
of family, friends and acquaintances. "Love only starts once you get
into a marriage relationship," they say. "Love marriages never work
out! Once the realities of life dawn, love disappears through the
window and then there is no force which can cement the
relationship. The element of commitment between families is missing
from love marriages. There are no expectations in arranged marriages,
therefore, you take anything that comes your way with gratitude."

That is true, I agree wholeheartedly. There are no expectations. The
glue of our social fabric is arranged marriages, established over the
years, with proven success rate, having an unquestioned authority and
certainty attached to it.

After all, it is the family, friends and acquaintances who play the
most strategic role in our lives; they are the perpetual commentators
and 'moral guardians' on the course of life one should adopt. With
little else to keep themselves occupied, the acquaintances especially
spend a great deal of their time commenting on the lives of others.

With nothing to do and no direction to follow, women in our culture
become garrulous commentators on life, its many facets and
intricacies, forcing their hideous, half-formed views onto
unsuspecting, innocent young minds. The choice is yours and what an
exciting choice at that: join the team or be doomed to rot forever as
a bitter, hardened spinster or an unfulfilled, spendthrift
bachelor. What is it then that goes on under the guise of arranged
marriages? Blatant questioning, no sophistication, no qualms, and no
subtleties involved. The boy's mother can start off with questions
like, "so is your daughter fair?" The most often asked question. Then
follows, "what is her height, age, possibility of settling abroad,
green card, profession, etc?" These apparently are the prerequisites
before the mother shall even come to see the girl. They don't want to
waste time as the boy is here for two weeks from the US and is on the
mission of marrying a girl in that period. The mother has to line up
three or four eligible, pretty girls so that the boy at least has a
choice.

The second stage is the visit by the mother. She is either accompanied
by other family members or friends. She stares at the girl
mercilessly, asks inappropriate questions, - "Do you cook? What are
your hobbies?" - looking with distaste if you don't have feminine
hobbies like a desire to excel at stitching, embroidering, cooking,
baking, cleaning and decorating the house etc. The whole process,
needless to say, is extremely discomforting for the girl - regarded as
a piece of property to be purchased for the son and the family alike -
being subjugated to ruthless stares and merciless questions.

The third stage is the arrival of the boy, accompanied by his
family. He, too, sits and stares at the girl, sometimes making inane
conversation, and repeats what the mother has said. On second thoughts
he looked better when he was quiet. When asked about his future plans
he looks somewhat perplexed. He has taken oath not to think and
especially not to be asked such rude questions. His sentences are full
of such utterances as, "My mother says, my mother thinks, my mother
feels..." And in the process the girl can lose count of the fact who
she is really marrying; the boy or his mother. "Same thing," some
would say.

If the deal is struck, then there is insistence that the girl's family
say 'yes' immediately. Talk about commitment. The girl's side has to
withstand these pressures and try to investigate the boy, his job in
the US, his 'marital status', his attachments abroad and also try to
decipher whether he is marrying for himself or to appease his
family. Whether he plans to take his bride-to-be as his wife or as an
appendage he will cast off once he goes back. After all what is the
defence of this girl once she is married? Who will be there to fend
for her, protect her in foreign soil? She would not even know how to
use the phone, the public transport, the credit card etc.

If the boy is a fake, that is, he has undertaken this journey under
family pressure and has no commitment to this girl, then untold
horrors await the girl's future. So God help her in not making the
erroneous choice of saying 'yes', and ability to decipher the quality
of the boy in question. What would lie ahead of her if she commits
this error? After all, if he has previous commitments, which he lacks
the courage to share with his own family, how can he muster the
strength to be faithful or honest to her?



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                                 15 December 1997



                           Good Girls and Bad Postures

                                     Bad Girl


When I was about 8 or 9, my father noticed that I had bad
posture. Shoulders hunched, spine distorted from reading constantly in
unnatural positions. Initially he tried gentle persuasion and
preaching the benefits of a well-tended spine in middle age. That
didn't work too well as I slumped further and further down into my
books. Compelled to take tougher measures, he started shouting "Seedhi
betho!" anytime he discovered me slouching around (which was
often). He was a persistent sort of man and by the time I was about
11, his constant refrain to straightness bore fruit - I developed a
posture that would have made GI Jane envious.

Sadly, my brand-new straight posture, acquired in roughly three years,
lasted only one year. The next year you see, I started, you know,
hmmm, how can I say this delicately, well, like any other healthy 12
year old female - but much to my mother's consternation - I sprouted
breasts. Initially my mother was in denial. "It's a passing phase,"
she said dismissively. Then she became accusatory, "Abhi toe tum siraf
duss saal ki hoe," to which I, very sanely reasoned, "but what does
that have to do with anything? I am twelve but I could have, er,
matured earlier, as has been known to happen, and phir kya?" (You
realize, of course, that I was a little too precocious, being a girl
and all). Finally, angered by my besharam persistence, my
ever-resourceful mother threatened to tie a tight, wide bandage around
the invaders. At this point, saner members of the family intervened
and the bandage threat was never carried out.

So, my mother resorted to verbal commands and body-language guerilla
warfare that went on for years. Soon my father's constant reminders to
straightness were replaced by militant-maternal commands of, "Seedhi
khadi hoe!" Which actually meant the exact opposite of what she was
saying. My father's relatively benign pleadings to seedhay bethna
withered in comparison to my mother's menacing looks that promised
eternal-maternal disapproval, possibly following me into jahanum,
where I was sure to land up.

Every time my shoulders were thrown back and my chest stuck out a bit
much, she would give me the deadly-ammi-glare that accused me of being
an undesirable sort of girl. (You know the types who laugh too loudly
and talk to the boys too freely at weddings and dance unabashedly,
shaking it all, in front of aunties). Well, I certainly did not want
to be one of those besharam types. So, my posture, developed over
years, was abandoned in pretty much a few months. I was young; my
spine was supple enough to learn the good-girl-hunch. I was convinced
that if I assumed this hunched position, men would go about their
important business of raping women, bombing cities and cutting down
the rain-forests, while aunties with eligible-marriageable sons would
beam their approval and add me to their list of
suitable-sorts-of-girls for their boys. Oh, the rewards of conforming
promised to be sweet!!

At the age of 16 (you realize, of course, that my earlier
precociousness had been replaced by a post-pubescent dullness of the
grey matter) I discovered that I was not alone. Every "good" young
woman I knew had bad posture. The becharees who were well endowed
would go to great lengths to distort their body in any way short of
actually crossing their arms across their offending chests (which
would only have drawn more attention to them). Having them at all was
a threat to and a defiance in the face of our paak-saaf society, but
having ones above the respectable-acceptable limit was somehow even
more criminal. So among my friends and cousins, big cotton dupattas
were carefully arranged and kameezes were artfully stitched to control
16-17 year old anatomies threatening to break free and wreak havoc
over good, civilized men. I was lucky, in a manner of speaking, being,
hmmm, small boned. But, even my meager endowment could be a deadly
menace if unleashed on the unsuspecting Pakistani man.

My chest swelled with pride (but only metaphorically) when I saw those
sort of girls standing too straight. Anyone looking at them and at me
would guess immediately, I simpered, who the good girl was. Who hated
her body. Who cowered in shame. Who thought she was protected because
she was not asking for trouble.

But, no dupatta was thick enough to save me from the lecherous looks
of the men on the streets and in the offices and drawing rooms of
Karachi. I played by the rules, but these men did not seem to think I
was a good enough girl not to be leered at.

My own mother, who once probably had a body much like mine, was not
comfortable with it. Many times, when I jumped in excitement or swayed
involuntarily to a particularly catchy tune, I saw ammi look at my
body as if she wished it would go away. I learnt to be ashamed of
it. Because it was a woman's body. A sexual object. A symbol of men's
honour, a museum for social morality, a receptacle for semen that
would reproduce the next generation of leering, marauding, murdering
men (also women, but the reproduction of women's bodies is a means,
the reproduction of men's is an end, or so we are taught).

A woman's body. Revered and raped. Veiled and stripped. The object of
desire that is not permitted to desire. The giver of pleasure that is
not permitted to feel it. A woman's body, that a woman can not -
SHOULD NOT - own. Oh how I hated my body. How I wanted to break free
from it and what it represented in the eyes of the men on the streets
and the men in the classrooms and the respectable drawing rooms. I was
nauseated by its reflection in countless writhing, half-clothed women
in Hindi movies and Punjabi movies and Hollywood movies, and "She"
magazine and Cosmopolitan and the Dalda ad and the McCleans ad and
the, and the...

It took me a long time to realize this. Much, much longer to stop
feeling ashamed. Every day I have to remind myself not to be
embarrassed. And I suppose that writing this piece is part of that
effort. I try, at least, to run without shame and laugh without shame
and dance without shame. But my spine is still bent from having been
crushed under the weight of sharam for years. I can't get my posture
back. Theek hai. I accept my imperfect woman's body.

[Author Introduction : Bad Girl is a Pakistani woman who lives and
works in New York City]