OP-ED: THE ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM – Part Two

Picture this: a young woman of 24 gathers the supreme courage to flee her abuser – her husband. Her father then cajoles her to return because his honour as a man is dependent on this young woman going right back to her abuser. She complies because social norms still far out-weigh the personal wellbeing of a woman. She returns to what she almost certainly knows is the end of a brutal road for her.
And sure enough, she is murdered.

The men put their blood-stained turbans back on their criminal heads, while #GullaanBharo is interred into the blessed earth. For the sane amongst us, Gullaan Bharo’s courage and grace is exponentially greater than the fickle honour that is carried around like a lodestone by all the men combined of her family.

So there she continues to sit, the Elephant in the room. Prominent and present even as she shrinks into herself; even as everyone looks right through her. Why? Because it has become normalized to not acknowledge the appalling state that is the state of the average Pakistani woman. She is beaten/ flayed/ deprived and caged into submission. Even as we approach the middle of the 21st century and men send rockets to Mars, there are other men that continue to create entire realms of abuse within the 4 walls of their caveman fortresses on our very earth.

Every other day, we hear of unspeakable criminal abuse against a daughter, a sister, a wife and a mother. And now, even the transitory burst of outrage has disappeared as this bullying of one gender by the other has become normalized. Here are some statistics from Pakistan that we as the educated/ empowered/ aware demographic that waxes thick on social media should at the very least, mull over.

  • 40% of married women have experienced spousal physical, sexual, or emotional violence. Some reports suggest 70% to 90% of married women in specific regions (e.g., Punjab) have experienced abuse from their spouses.
  • 86% of women reported at least one traumatic event.
  • HONOUR KILLINGS: Thirteen women are reported murdered daily in the name of honour. It is important to note that almost 90% of cases do not get reported at all. So this statistic is exponentially higher.
  • SEXUAL VIOLENCE: At least 11 rape cases are reported daily, with over 22,000 cases reported over six years. Again, this statistic is only the tip of the iceberg.
  • CHILDHOOD TRAUMA: A study on rural mothers found that 58% experienced at least one Adverse Childhood Experience (ACE), commonly home violence (38%) or neglect (20%).
  • CHILDBIRTH TRAUMA: A study in Sindh found that 97% of women reported at least one form of disrespectful or abusive behaviour during childbirth. 
  • ECONOMIC INEQUALITY: Pakistan is ranked among the worst countries for women regarding economic participation and opportunity, which limits women’s autonomy and increases dependence on abusers.

Other interesting global statistics:

  • There is a 21% rate of abandonment if the wife falls terminally or seriously ill, compared to only 3% when the husband is the patient.
  • 90% of single parents are women.
  • 80% of organ donors are women. 80% of organ receivers are men.
  • Rape Incidence: About 1 in 4 women (approx. 25%) has experienced rape or attempted rape in their lifetime.

I look at these indices and I feel numb – a self preservation tactic in a world that has become dismally imbalanced. We are floating so low at the bottom of the barrel that expecting any reforms in the manner of decisive legislation aimed at the wellbeing of women seems like a pipe dream. But speak we must, despite our anesthetic bubbles of privilege and security, hoping that somewhere, at some perfect inflection point, things will begin to change.

(I wrote the first part of this op-ed in September of 2020. You can read it here: https://theroamingdesi.org/2020/09/15/opinionthe-elephant-in-the-room/ )

VERSE | ISN’T IT IRONIC?

How long has it gone on for?
I have lost count of the days and the months
And the number of times
Facts and fiction have been combined
Made to stand hand in hand
By the gentiles that stain these lands
Caricaturizing, miming scenes
Of zealotry and genocide

I have lost count
Of the number of hospitals bombed
Ruins atop tunnels where the Khamas abound
And the aid workers killed
Unidentified dangrerous women and men
And the journalists sniped
With their arsenal of 1984 daggers and knives
And the doctors shot
With nitroglycerin bombs hidden in their surgical gowns
And the men raped in prisons
With propagandist lore stuffed up their intestines
And the women maimed
Their bellies heavy with terrorist babes
And the children killed
Starved and stilled
Their sinful blood spilled
On the promised land

How long before this evil doth cease
How long before the chosen ones can finally live in peace?
Image: Freepik

VERSE | THE PRECARIOUSNESS OF SAFE SPACES

I sit here, open my laptop 
Look out at the sea
From the terrace of an iconic hotel
My work venue as a freelancer, a digital nomad
I write, what does that make me?
The titles meander endlessly
Senselessly

This little bit of serenity
This deliberate grasping of nature’s stillness
Has become a habit now
Preserving my sanity
My emotional equilibrium if you will
Before I dive into my world of responsibilities
And regulations that keep changing
Anew with ever more creative indignities

It’s time to reapply for the visa
The one bestowing a residency - some permanency
Is still ephemeral, a dream
So I keep doing my tawaf
Perambulating around the aspiration
Denied to me
Meanwhile I look for other little oft-trodden paths
Like visit visas that are stark
And tie and bind me into a cell
Purgatorial, ‘twixt heaven and hell

I can’t put down roots
I cant roam free
That is for the other folks
The ones with passports
Thin as wafers, pristine
Devoid of stamps and seals
That pull you into parentheses
An afterthought, you’re one of the horde
Picked out from discord, erratically
For a while allowed to be
A part of regular humanity
That throngs its shores
In NY caps and Bermuda shorts
Dollars and dollars
Lining their seams
Blissful, unaware of what runs in the veins
Of those who smile and smile and gleam
Who enthrall and beguile
For a while before going back
To the crumbling shacks
That once were homes
Pulverized by landslides and floods
Now pulled together by mud and stones

How do I know?
Because behind the smile I’ve seen the pain
Heavy and sodden like monsoon rain
Of the tuktuk drivers, the servers, the valets
Whose three-wheelers bear me week after week - ceaselessly
Whose lattes I sip while they look out at the sea - pensively
Who stand there smiling, ready to greet - endlessly
Their eyes have welled
With tears, with fears; so have mine
I know, I know and I understand
Pariahs all of us in this land
That is meant to be our home
That has since become a tomb.

Image: Julia Cameron 
Featured

LONGLIST | ZHR PRIZE FOR WOMEN WRITERS

My story “THE GLIMMER” has been long listed in the Zeenat Haroon Rashid 2023 Writing competition for Women.

Zeenat Haroon Rashid (21 Jan 1928 – 8 April 2017) was the daughter of Sir Abdullah Haroon. She was a young stalwart of the Muslim League and founding member of the Women’s National Guard at the time of Independence, and throughout her life promoted a vision of Pakistani women as equal partners in the struggle for building a modern Pakistan. The Zeenat Haroon Rashid Writing Prize for Women has been set up to promote and provide support for women who wish to pursue writing as a career.

Thank you to this year’s judges, Amina Ahmad, Shandana Minhas, Mohammad Hanif, Sarwat Yasmeen Azeem and Shan Vahidy. Grateful and chuffed 🙏🏼🌸

YOU CAN READ THE LONGLIST HERE: https://www.zhrwritingprize.com/read-the-longlist

VERSE | COME DOWN-SING-DRUMS PLAY

But you have to wed 
There is no other way

Unless of course I’m dead
He’s family, my sister’s son
Your cousin
You’ve known each other
Since forever

Yes, he used to be my brother!
LIKE a brother when you were little
He’s not your brother
Don’t say these bizarre things

‘Bhai hai! Khair hai, chai bana lo’
That wasn’t said so long ago
By you mother, ammi, ammini, enemy

That was then and this is now
I have a child
Sing, drums play for you
A son is born, sing!
My child, so beautiful
Come down sing drums play for you
Sing drums play, come
Down-sing-drums
Play for you, come
Down-Syn-Drums
Play for you, come
Down-syn-drome
Pain for you, come, come down….

This is now and how it shall remain
My child, golden
Beautiful, so beautiful
So angry, so tearful
And also so dry-eyed, so agonized
So angry all the time
He screams again
I close my ears sometimes
I disappear now and then
I look away from his little head
Swollen with tears, angry, unshed

But I had to wed
There was no other way
He was family, her sister’s son
Now my son my son, my beautiful, broken son
There was no other way
I had to become the bride
Unless of course I had died.
Image: Sam

VERSE | WALKING ACROSS THE STREET TO THE PARK

I wish this verse was more wholesome and whimsical like Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”, but that it is not. This is about women determinedly forging on across streets, bazaars, workplaces, government offices, neighbourhoods and communities. This verse is also not so much about the woman hopeful of change (God knows that’s going to take its time in our blessed homeland), but the woman who is stoic and steadfast. It is the woman who goes about her day despite the odds that pull at her body, spirit and soul. It is the woman who dares to bare her true self despite and in fact because society expects otherwise. It is the woman who walks in her neighborhood afraid yet brave. May you find your grit and your grace for the rest of the days of your life.

A resolute, meaningful Women’s Day to all my friends and family 🌺


I wear my track pants
And a pink shirt, long
It says “Life is a song”
I wonder if it’s too loud
Stoking thoughts like a gong
A shout
To the world of men that teams about
The streets
Eyes peeled
For glimpses of variously clad
Women that are mad
Enough to sidle into the periphery of their sight
And special leery gazes
Trained like full-throttled tasers
On women who dare
To bare
More than the hand wrist down
Or a smidgeon of a toe around
Which sits an uncomfortable sandal
A Soleful reminder
To walk cautiously
To always look behind her
To shrink as small as she is able
So she might pass
With a warning glance
From the men sitting around
Jenetic Judges of right and wrong

For the women who dare
To bare
There’s a special gaze
For their fall from grace
From the fraternity that mills about
The corners of streets
Superior, upright
Pissing in plain sight
Marking their territories
For the women who dare to bare
More than the eyes
Downcast, demure
Vacuous and pure
For them there’s the death stare
Cutting them down to size
I’m one of those
Who - Dares - To - Bare
The woman within
The whole human being
Self assured, aware
She sits in my eyes
Unfaltering, dignified
Even as her heart drums inside
As she traverses that den
Of wolves, dressed as men.
Image: Ramona Pintea