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ARRIVING in India is always an assault on the senses — visceral,
confronting, confusing. But as I landed in the southern Indian city of
Hyderabad a few days ago, India surprised and confounded me in a whole
new way.
India’s daughters are finally stepping forward to be counted.
I bounced straight off the plane into a party my friend was hosting. The crowd was a mix of well educated locals and expats.
There was animated discussion about the BBC documentary India’s Daughter, a film about the vicious gang rape of a young Delhi woman in 2012.
Amid the whisky and vegetable pilaf, the group was outraged with the Indian government’s decision to ban the film, and furious with a lawyer for one of the convicted rapists now on death row.
The lawyer had told the filmmakers he would set his daughter on fire if she behaved improperly.
That weekend I followed my host to an International Women’s Day event. It was run by a small community organisation supporting a group of illiterate Muslim women.
These women are slum dwellers. They have it tougher than most. They’re usually schooled only to the age of 12 and they have no financial or social independence.
As the event unfolded, I traversed the venue taking photographs of the young women, their children and some young men who turned up. But what happened next surprised me — and was quite different to what I had experienced on previous trips to India.
Initially the young boys came forward to have their picture taken — nothing surprising there. Indian boys are raised as mini-gods and their ‘look at me!’ confidence is irrepressible.
But then the young girls wanted their turn. One by one they
moved to the head of the queue elbowing the boys out of the way to stare
confidently into the lens.
It was astonishing. I had not expected this display of assertiveness from those who were among the least powerful in a nation where violence against women and girls is widespread, arguably endemic.
I was fascinated — and wanted to understand how or why this apparent shift is taking place. I later found some answers in a Muslim slum called First Lancer deep in Hyderabad.
My guide through the narrow, crowded maze of alleys was Rubina Nafees Fatima, the head of an organisation called SAFA.
Rubina, herself Muslim, navigates the deeply complex world of Islamic gender politics to give girls an education and women financial independence.
“Living so close together in such tight conditions, there’s a
lot of fighting between families. There’s a lot of pressure on people.
The violence is then often directed toward the kids and the women.”
With her organisation Rubina’s approach is to create incremental change which benefits women but doesn’t greatly upset their husbands and fathers.
“It won’t work if we completely change the social and cultural fabric. We have to bring the men with us.”
But this hasn’t been easy. And from what she says the best result is that the men don’t block initiatives. It’s rare that men openly support what their wives or daughters are doing. But increasingly they’re just not objecting.
SAFA began with women creating small tailoring ventures in their homes. Rubina realised that having no money of their own meant they had no power.
By earning their own money they were able to supplement the family income and they could pay for their daughter’s education. And subsequently the women themselves began to have a life outside the home.
And the program is thriving. If a girl continues her education she’s then likely to remain unmarried until her twenties giving her greater opportunities, Rubina says.
But in order to minimise any disharmony, Rubina encourages the women to not overly exert their new independence.
“I say to them don’t rub it in their faces at home.”
After we’ve finished our interview I take a brief walk around the slum watching the children play and the men run their tiny shops. Occasionally a woman walks past. And right on cue, the boys are imploring me to photograph them.
But this time, there are no girls joining the fray. I worry that the young female confidence I saw at the International Women’s Day event may have been a one-off — the exception rather than an emerging new rule. Slightly deflated, I start to pack away my gear, mindful of just how slow progress can be.
Then, just as I’m about to leave, there’s a tug on my shirt. It’s a tiny girl, she must be eight and she’s determined to have her picture taken. I click away as she stands defiantly, arms wrapped under her long headscarf, smiling confidently.
India’s daughters are finally stepping forward to be counted.I bounced straight off the plane into a party my friend was hosting. The crowd was a mix of well educated locals and expats.
There was animated discussion about the BBC documentary India’s Daughter, a film about the vicious gang rape of a young Delhi woman in 2012.
Amid the whisky and vegetable pilaf, the group was outraged with the Indian government’s decision to ban the film, and furious with a lawyer for one of the convicted rapists now on death row.
The lawyer had told the filmmakers he would set his daughter on fire if she behaved improperly.
That weekend I followed my host to an International Women’s Day event. It was run by a small community organisation supporting a group of illiterate Muslim women.
These women are slum dwellers. They have it tougher than most. They’re usually schooled only to the age of 12 and they have no financial or social independence.
As the event unfolded, I traversed the venue taking photographs of the young women, their children and some young men who turned up. But what happened next surprised me — and was quite different to what I had experienced on previous trips to India.
Initially the young boys came forward to have their picture taken — nothing surprising there. Indian boys are raised as mini-gods and their ‘look at me!’ confidence is irrepressible.
At first only the boys came forward, but then the girls wanted their turn.
It was astonishing. I had not expected this display of assertiveness from those who were among the least powerful in a nation where violence against women and girls is widespread, arguably endemic.
I was fascinated — and wanted to understand how or why this apparent shift is taking place. I later found some answers in a Muslim slum called First Lancer deep in Hyderabad.
My guide through the narrow, crowded maze of alleys was Rubina Nafees Fatima, the head of an organisation called SAFA.
Rubina, herself Muslim, navigates the deeply complex world of Islamic gender politics to give girls an education and women financial independence.
Rubina Nafees Fatima, the head of SAFA.
With her organisation Rubina’s approach is to create incremental change which benefits women but doesn’t greatly upset their husbands and fathers.
“It won’t work if we completely change the social and cultural fabric. We have to bring the men with us.”
But this hasn’t been easy. And from what she says the best result is that the men don’t block initiatives. It’s rare that men openly support what their wives or daughters are doing. But increasingly they’re just not objecting.
SAFA began with women creating small tailoring ventures in their homes. Rubina realised that having no money of their own meant they had no power.
By earning their own money they were able to supplement the family income and they could pay for their daughter’s education. And subsequently the women themselves began to have a life outside the home.
And the program is thriving. If a girl continues her education she’s then likely to remain unmarried until her twenties giving her greater opportunities, Rubina says.
But in order to minimise any disharmony, Rubina encourages the women to not overly exert their new independence.
“I say to them don’t rub it in their faces at home.”
After we’ve finished our interview I take a brief walk around the slum watching the children play and the men run their tiny shops. Occasionally a woman walks past. And right on cue, the boys are imploring me to photograph them.
But this time, there are no girls joining the fray. I worry that the young female confidence I saw at the International Women’s Day event may have been a one-off — the exception rather than an emerging new rule. Slightly deflated, I start to pack away my gear, mindful of just how slow progress can be.
Then, just as I’m about to leave, there’s a tug on my shirt. It’s a tiny girl, she must be eight and she’s determined to have her picture taken. I click away as she stands defiantly, arms wrapped under her long headscarf, smiling confidently.
In a slum in Hyderabad this little girl was the only one to come forward to have her photo taken.
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