The Express Tribune

I had never been much of a sports fan. My father loves cricket and whenever he watched it, I either watched it half-heartedly with him or just left the room. It never interested me like it interested many of my friends. I thought maybe I am not into sports; maybe the extent of me liking sports is restricted to playing basketball. I was introduced to football back in school. It seemed so new to me, I had never explored this game. People at school talked about it and apparently watching it was cooler than watching cricket. I tried watching it and I realised that I actually love it. The game, the players, the fans and the loyalty one possessed for their club, fascinated me. Everything that I experienced while watching a football game was new and real, and for the first time in my life, I felt connected to something. However, what bothered me was the way men in my life responded to my interest in football. Yes, I am a girl and yes I love watching football. How does that make me better than every other girl who doesn’t? And how does that make me an ‘ideal girl to date’? I never understood why being a girl and watching football was such news flash to men. I remember back in university, I was talking to a guy and we ended up discussing El Clásico (Real Madrid versus Barcelona) as it was coming up; he told me that he couldn’t believe that I watched football. He said that for him, a girl who watched football was an ideal girl, a date-worthy girl. He proceeded to explain how he does not know a girl who did watch it and told me that he was really interested in me because I knew so much about football. Also, he was pretty excited that I was a Madridista, same as him. There couldn’t be any more red flags there, so I tried to explain and reason with him, but his fascination of me, a girl watching football, did not go away. He said,

“If you keep talking to me about football, I’ll fall in love with you!”

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Photo: Giphy[/caption] I have never blocked anyone faster than I blocked him. The fact that he thinks I am ideal because I watch a certain sport while other girls don’t, does not seem cute to me; it is absolutely sexist. The statement “girls don’t watch football” is not true. I know so many football fans who are girls, Pakistani girls, hence his generalisation was flawed. He said,

“You’re not like other girls!”

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Photo: Giphy[/caption] Yes, I am not like other girls because everyone has a different personality, but by saying this if you are implying that I’m better than other girls, then no. You can’t demean my gender and then expect me to fall head over heels for you just because you think I am superior to other girls. This is an extremely ignorant thing to say and I know a lot of men and even women think that this is absolutely romantic, but it is not. Stop pitting women against each other. We are not here to compete for your hearts. https://twitter.com/CallMeChae/status/920835071334141952 These are not only men but women too who have internalised this notion of a woman watching sports to be better. A friend of mine was recently talking to me about how she cannot wait for me to get married. She told me,

“Tum toh football bi dekhti ho, aadhay ladkay toh wesey hi pasand karlengay!” (You also like football, half of the men will already like you because of that!)

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Photo: Giphy[/caption] This statement wasn’t funny to me. It made me feel sad knowing that my friend believed that watching football made me a ‘better catch’ for guys. Something that should be a normal hobby had turned into this incredibly different trait that would give me an upper hand in matrimonial situations. I have seen those ‘if she watches football, marry her’ memes all over social media and each time it made me furious. Men apparently think it is a good idea to base their future on whether someone watches a certain sport. Clearly, we all know who the smarter gender here is! [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="600"]

Photo: Pinterest[/caption] This does not end here. Apparently, when I tell men I watch football, I need to prove that I do. I was at a cafe watching a football match with a friend and his team was playing. He knew I liked football and asked me if I even knew the names of all the players in my team. I looked at him and tried to decipher if he was joking or being serious.

“Nai yaar, mujhay kahan pata. (Of course I don’t, how would I now?) I only know Ronaldo because you know, he is hot!” I replied, to which he smirked.

https://twitter.com/max_sticks/status/741227738334367744 Another instance, a fan of a rival team (yes, Barcelona) was arguing with me about a certain player (no, not Ronaldo). During our little spat, he knew he had lost the argument and so asked me,

“Tumhain bara pata hai na football ka (you know so much about football, right), then tell me, do you even know who is the highest goal-scorer of your club after Ronaldo?”

I knew the answer – it was Raúl – and I answered his question too, but why do I always have to prove to people that I actually do like and follow football? Why do I have to prove to people that no, I don’t watch it to impress guys? Just because I am a girl, I am automatically under scrutiny from all the male football fans who still think that I love Real Madrid because I have a crush on Ronaldo. https://twitter.com/maddyryan12/status/561994074518200321 It’s high time that men come out of the giant rock they are all living under and see the reality of the world. Girls watch sports, girls play sports and girls talk about sports. All of this is absolutely normal; this is not a personality trait to have. It is okay to like a girl if she watches football but it is not okay to deem her better than girls who don’t. And please, when a girl tells you she watches football, don’t put her under investigation. Acknowledge it and move on. We don’t want special treatment for this and we do not want you to be sarcastic imbeciles about it.

The first time it happened, I was seven. An imam in our neighbourhood mosque held me, taking my hand, wrapping my fingers (they were still tiny) around his genitals, then massaging it. I was so small I did not know what it was that was in my hand. I had never seen it before and I certainly did not know what it felt like.

“Do you like it?” he asked again and again, until someone came to the room, and he quickly let go of me.

Later, I told my mom about this peculiar incident, and she wept for weeks and months over it but told me not to tell anyone. I was so small that I asked my mother why and what exactly was the imam asking me to do. And why would I like it? I asked my mother if I could tell my grandfather who I was really close to, she said,

“No, not even grandpa.”

The next time, not long after, it was another imam (it seemed as though the word was going around that I was an easy target–I was mostly a shy and quiet child). My mother could not leave me alone anywhere after that, I wasn't allowed to play outside, or be out of sight. I grew up, afraid and wary, but never protested, and most of the times never told a soul. During my teens, however, it began again; by a teacher, my school bus driver, groping, fondling, grabbing, then later astonishingly a colleague, a friend, a number of friends, a doctor, a relative, many relatives, a stranger and then many strangers. It was both the men I trusted and those whom I avoided. It was the men I admired, respected, and those I knew nothing about. It was the men I had crushes on. I felt like I was a magnet for trouble. It wasn’t until my late teens that I saw another girl being harassed publicly in broad daylight. News flash: It wasn’t just me. But I saw that no one helped that girl. I remember transforming from the timid girl who feared men, to an angry woman. I slapped men on the street – the grabbers, often even catcallers; I pinched men who slipped their fingers under the seat in public transports (yes, it is very common in Karachi’s buses); I threw pebbles (sometimes stones) on those who hoped to flee after the act. In fact, I became an expert on finding pebbles; I knew what size, type and weight to look for that would strike the target accurately from a distance. Especially if the harasser was on a bike, I knew how to quickly grab one and not miss my target. Girls in my college used exam boards to cover their chests when they would walk outside the college, to curtail the chances of being harassed by men. I stayed alert, and took on men who would harass/hurt other girls. My late teens and early 20s passed away like this. My forehead still has a slight but stubborn frown, sustained from the creases from those young days. Many family members and younger cousins made fun of me and called me names. Women who knew how I dealt with such men on the streets never wanted to go out to the bazaar with me; they felt embarrassed of my protests. They told me that it was not appropriate for girls to behave in such a manner and that I didn’t have to be like the men. Once I beat up the son of a police officer, in front of other men in the neighbourhood, in Karachi. Soon the said police officer showed up at my house, with protocol, to see my father. A number of our neighbours and the elderly (it’s important to note that these were false accusations) accused me of having bad character. They said I was catcalling their son and that I should be locked in the house. This wasn’t the first time men spoke to my father about my ‘bad character’. It was outrageous for them that a women, a tiny girl, was telling them “no”! My father, a simple man, was embarrassed and had no idea why complaints were being made if I wasn’t the culprit. Being a man, it wasn’t obvious to him what was obvious to my mother. In the conservative neighbourhood that we lived in, my father was often asked why he would let me out of the house in the first place. So, I was punished for months. It affected my school life and hence the process of my heart being broken into pieces initiated. I realised, even though I behaved strongly, my boldness was no good. I was not stronger than all of them. Silly me, so little in my teens, I should have listened to all the girls who kept their mouths shut and told me to do the same. When harassment came in my 20s and 30s, often in the field as a reporter or at university campuses (where I was always and by all means reminded I was too young to be a professor), it was by the men who did not go to my father anymore. During my protests, men shunned me in other ways. They went behind my back and called me names – a Manhattan lawyer I refused to kiss, who I confronted me via an email, responded to me with threats, and I genuinely got scared of him. Whether they are men from the east or men from the west, the story is the same. If you tell a man off – white, brown or even an orange man – he will go after you. They would falsely accuse you of things just because it’s convenient. Society, both men and women, believe the man. Men took credit for my work and sometimes even stole my work. They hit on me even when I told them I was dating someone else or even if they were married. They kept whispering in my editor’s ears that my work was horrible; an incident I was told by the perpetrator himself and when confronted, he said he did it “just like that”. They did not pay me for the work I did for months, spread rumours about not only my character (because that wasn’t enough) but the quality and authenticity of my work just so they could nullify the need for my work. It’s a strategy, you see. These men in my adult life were not young boys from another neighbourhood in Karachi anymore; these were educated, smart, influential grown men and they knew how to smear. They were my flirtatious bosses or the men who wanted to be bosses because they thought I was alone, and needy. Men assume that being a woman by default, I ought to do favours to get ahead. Some men were my sources in the stories I were to write; powerful military men who wanted to ‘trade’ information with me, or socially weak men. In one instance, an old refugee man mistook my empathy as an invitation. All these men tore away my spine. They took away so much of my energy, that when I say I am tired, I am not just lethargic tired; I am broken-into-pieces tired. My forehead burns with the warm racing blood as I type this. Somewhere along the line, I completely lost my toughness that I had when I was a teenager. I became soft and mushy, unsure and nervous. People who say that women engage in sexual relationships for career advancements simply want to get you busy in the boulderdash. Where are those women? Show me! Show me the women who exchange sexual favours to get ahead. The truth is, it is just something men like to tell each other when they harass, abuse and attack women. When these women stand up for themselves and tell them ‘no’, they go darting at them. The time we spend manoeuvring all these men, missing their darts is a difficult defence technique to achieve in this battle, especially when you are weak and under-resourced. Last month, while I was on a work trip in Georgia, I was pushed to the wall by a man at a friend’s house. He assumed I would be open to it – mostly because in his mind, that’s what women traveling (working/driving/breathing) alone are looking for, to be forced against walls. What is evident, though, is that safe environments don’t become magically safer just because you are in your 30s and relatively wiser. Last week, another incident occurred in Turkey. I was interviewing a man and his hands wandered from the keyboard to my chest. This is never going to stop. Over the past few years, I realise how silenced I feel in my adult life, all the time. Words muzzle themselves. Conditioning! Discouragement! Accusations! Trauma! Brokenness! I have internalised my rage that turned it into my depression, affecting my health. I had become the quiet and timid girl one again – a child who couldn’t tell anyone about the abuse she faced, not even to those who were close to her. I wanted to put my energy into solutions (which I shall continue) and not in the physical fights. I wasn’t afraid of being the ‘magnet for trouble’ again. But today, if I end up being one for the sake of standing up against the wrong, so be it. No matter how right you are, misogyny has no fact-checker. False accusations confuse society towards women, their character and their work. It belittles their fights. It belittles all our fights. Yes, love and support will mend things but we have to fight alongside for our rights. This strenuous past week has been illuminating, because so many women, colleagues and friends shared their stories. I thank them all. Telling your story is an act of fighting too, and listening and believing these stories are part of the battle that we need to win. I am listening and letting others know that they are not alone in this fight. To all the women who feel and face what I do, I am taking an oath today – I will not deny my right to fight, and I won’t deny your right to be heard. I will fight the abusers – sexual, psychological and racial – by listening and speaking. Most of the time, you can't understand everyone’s struggle out of the cave, but what’s the harm in trying? We need to empathise and speak for others as well. As I learn in my 30s to love fiercely, I will also prepare myself to fight fiercely. And dear men, if you care about us women, don’t forget to show your support. No amount of shyness or unpreparedness should burden your courage to help women who have suffered so deeply and for so long. #MeToo #NotAnyMore Author’s note: After writing this Facebook post, I received dozens of emails, messages, notes, stories, mostly men showing their support. It made me hopeful. I was not expecting to be noticed, because I am used to being ignored when I raise a sensitive issue like this one. Once, while I was working for a TV channel in Pakistan, I was blamed, shamed and attacked for reporting harassment of a senior colleague. It caused a long-lasting impact on my mental health, my courage and my career. It is a reality of every woman’s life; this will happen to any woman who utters a word. Doubt comes before empathy. And your doubt in us could mean we would have to start our lives from scratch. We should be wise in how we react to these stories. Whether women speak out or not, their energies and freedoms are being consumed. It would be ideal to live in a more accepting society where these women can trust their instinct to speak out, when it is necessary for them to speak out.

Religious freedom has been a pipe dream for years now, especially for women, who are subjected to male dominants in this society. A major portion of the woman population has embraced this situation as a norm and continues to cultivate it within the minds of their young girls as well, others, however, have not. They have strived and fought for basic rights, such as education, health, the right to vote and the liberty to go out unaccompanied. While the tide of feminism and many socialist organisations have washed part of the misogyny that exists in numerous societies, there is still a long road ahead, blurred with thorny inconveniences and legislative boundaries. One of these constrictions has been in place in Iran since the 1979 revolution that completely altered the history of the Iranian nation. After the accession of the supreme leader, Ayatollah Khomeini, laws pertaining to Shariah were interpreted and enforced. Included in this was the compulsion of wearing hijab for women who are above the age of 13. For decades, women have overlooked this restriction, in a bid to avoid confrontation and conflict. But the 21^st century has espoused strength and a vision to attain freedom amidst all sorts of people. This awakening has led to many people freeing themselves from oppression, whether it is men and women of colour or the protests that led to the crippling of strongholds such as Egypt’s Hosni Mubarak and Libya’s Muammar Gaddafi. This new era has also seen leniencies from the Saudi monarch, with respect to freedom for women, and now people in Iran are also standing up for their freedom of choice. People have realised that there exist certain liberties that not even the most powerful human king can confiscate. In December 2017, 31-year-old Vida Mohaved was witnessed waving her headscarf with a stick on Inqilab Street in Tehran. Inspired by civil rights activist Masih Alinejad, who runs a website ‘My Stealthy Freedom’ where she encourages women to share ‘pictures of defiance’. Mohaved was arrested but paved the way for numerous other protestors to follow suit. In recent weeks, many such cases have erupted in Iran where women are waving their headscarves on sticks and chanting slogans that defy the state compulsions against them. Protestors claim that it is not a bid to thwart religious teachings or wage war against the cultural ideologies in place; rather it is in defiance of the restrictions and oppression that arise from such laws.

“We are fighting against the most visible symbol of oppression. These people are not fighting against a piece of cloth, they are fighting against the ideology behind compulsory hijab,” said Alinejad, who called the movement the ‘true face of feminism’.

According to reports, 29 women have been arrested for defying the laws and protesting for their right of choice, but the matter is still underway. While many demand the resignation of the supreme leader, there are others who are vying for legislative reforms. With sympathisers in the Rouhani government, their resistance may take form. However, the true challenge remains pertaining to the mindset of the people. This mindset requires women to willingly let men control them and accepts men’s audacity to regulate women’s choices. There is a dire need for a campaign that spreads awareness about consent and freedom of choice. Hijab is a multifaceted topic that is often the favourite one amongst religious clerics. They claim it is the first step to religiosity and modesty. But, in all honesty, it is also the first step to controlling the affairs of women. As a consensual hijabi of over five years, what allows me to embrace covering my head is the freedom to be allowed to choose. Had I been forced to don it, I would probably not have been able to abide by it. And that is perhaps why states must not be allowed to intervene in such private matters. The Quran is brutally honest when it states, “there shall be no compulsion in [acceptance of] religion.” And in fact that is the cause of the downfall of many Muslim societies present today. There must be no compulsion. The choice to wear or not to wear a piece of cloth lies with the individual alone. It is perhaps the most personal affair of a woman that is being monitored by state authorities. There is really no question as to whether it is Islam-compliant or not. There is no Muslim, man or woman, who will blatantly go against the hijab. However, it is still a matter of personal choice, and that is what protestors are trying to helm attention for. The fact of the matter is that God deals with intentions and not the act itself. If you and I were to forcefully commit a ‘good deed’, God would still judge us upon our intentions. Therefore, we should be cognisant of the fact that forceful commitment to such a grand religious act is pure ignorance. It highlights the need for powerful men to enforce their strength and power on the various segments of the society. Women are perhaps the greatest force to be reckoned with, if only they realise it. To judge them based purely upon the covering and uncovering of their heads, is perhaps the lowest level one can stoop to. We must encourage and allow them to be free, in their choices, in their opportunities to excel and in their lives to achieve. For a nation to progress and prosper, it is imperative that the marginalised communities be streamlined. With a female population of around 49%, Iran is surrounded by grievances concerning half of the population. It is an issue of fundamental rights and sovereignty. No one should be permitted to base laws upon their specific interpretation of scriptures. For justice and equality to prevail, the Iranian government must stop arresting the protestors and allow their input with relevant logical rationale. This is not a matter to be resolved holed up in emotional religious debates, but requires calm discourse. It is for the government to realise that they must not interfere in petty personal matters but look beyond, to the greater issues thawing the state administration. The fact that Iran is busying its forces on the arrests of peaceful women protestors while the world fights the Donald Trump phenomenon, the terror of the Islamic State (IS), nuclear proliferation, global warming and climate change, explains a lot about the priorities of the Iranian government. A government acts as a ceremonial father figure, not a controlling, overbearing, immature elder brother. It is for the people of Iran to make a decisive commitment to this cause, for it is not just a matter of the hijab but the basic tenet of lawmaking. If the Iranians lose sight on this, it is a precedent for their government to continue intervening in personal choices, an act unacceptable under the liberties granted by the United Nations. And if they do not act now, there is no knowing what the future holds for them. Iran stands at the brink of a harrowing dilemma where freedom of speech, right of choice and the liberty to live freely, is scathed by a great risk, earnestly pleading for reprieve.

I was one of the most excited women in the newsroom when I heard Bollywood was making a movie tackling the taboo around menstruation called PadMan. As someone who detests censorship to the core, I thought perhaps now that the pad will be up on the silver screen, I will no longer be shamed for talking about periods openly, or for refusing to use the brown bag. But excitement didn’t last very long. Lo and behold! The Central Board of Film Censors banned PadMan in Pakistan. The details in the news were mind-blowing, a lot like how it feels when the uterus explodes and the periodic bleeding commences. Apparently, members of the Punjab Film Censor Board refused to even watch the film, saying the subject is “taboo”. The same hogwash was thrown around social media as well, that discussing menstruation is “not acceptable” in our society. The comment sections reeked of regression, more disgusting than soiled pads. The first time I bled, I was 11 The news of the ban took me back to the first time I learned about puberty. I was 10-years-old. My body had started going through changes which got me worried as an unaware child. I thought I needed an operation. So I turned to my mother for help, who then had to disclose that I will start bleeding in the coming months.

“But why? Why do we get periods, Ami? Does Baji (my elder sister) have periods too? What about Bhai (my brother)?”

Questions. I had so many questions. My mother, trying to hide her abashed smile, said,

“Yes, Baji has periods too. It happens to all girls, and no, boys don’t get periods, only women get periods because that’s just how God created us.”

And with that, the matter was put to rest. The 10-year-old me accepted that half-explanation, and a few months later, at the age of 11, I began bleeding. It happened while I was in school (I went to an all-girls school). As I still did not have enough information, I was unprepared and ended up staining my steel-grey uniform, a lot. I was walking in the corridor from the bathroom when some teenaged girls, the senior Bajis, surrounded me.

“What’s that on your back?” one of them asked; a question that left me dumbfounded.

How do they not know, I thought to myself. What else could the brown-coloured blotches on the back of any uniform be? Are they just pranking me? As an anxious child experiencing puberty, I felt attacked for the way I was approached, confused for the way the questions were hurled, and ashamed because I had made my clothes dirty with blood. So many thoughts went abuzz in my head. I wish I hadn’t dirtied my uniform. I wish nobody could see my dirty blood! How will I sit in the van and travel like this? What if there’s more of it coming? Oh God, I feel so naked. I just want to go home, were some of the thoughts rushing through my head, birthing anxiety. The voices in my head grew louder as the girls awaited a response. I was trying but I just couldn’t get myself to say the “m” word. Just then, much to my relief, a girl stepped in from somewhere and said something that dissipated all the tension in the air.

“It’s Coke,” she said. “It got spilled.”

And with that, everything fizzled out (no pun intended). What is this shame in our vaginas? It’s been 18 years since the first time I bled but I remember all of it too vividly. The senior Bajis knew we were lying. We knew that they knew we were lying. But everyone felt this inexplicable need to lie, to cover the blood. Where was this pressure to lie coming from? What was so wrong and shameful about admitting to a natural process that all girls around the world go through? It’s been 18 years and I’m still trying to figure that out. Why do menstruating women in Muslim families wake up for Sehri when they aren’t going to fast? Why do the same women force their daughters to stuff anda paratha (egg with bread) down their throats and participate in this family drama at 4am? Every Muslim knows menstruating Muslim women are excused from offering prayers or fasting. So then what is up with these gimmicks? Who are we deceiving about the blood flowing through our vaginas? And then there are these other, less pervasive forms of censorship, such as women using code words for menstruation. In my family, we refer to menstruation as ‘Aunty’ or chutti (holiday).

“Yusra, why aren’t you praying? Chutti hai (Is it your holiday)?” “Yes,” I would say. “My ‘Aunty’ is visiting.”

Ugh, don’t ask. I mean God-forbid if you need a pad and need to use it in a bathroom, which is across the living room where your father and male cousins are sitting. Obviously, nobody should see the pad in your hand. What if they find out? It would be apocalyptic, if you know what I mean. So we wrap the pads in our dupattas. Or we try to cover it by spreading our palm over the square-shaped pack, placing the hand under the daaman (hem) of our shirts. And we speed through the living room at lightning speed because Abu na dekh lain (Father shouldn’t see it)! Resisting the infamous brown bag Over the years, I’ve grown into a raging, radical feminist. But coming from a traditionally conservative family, surrounded by women who promote the censorship surrounding menstruation, resisting hasn’t been that easy. I remember the first time I refused the brown bag at a popular chain supermarket in Nazimabad. The aisle manager, a middle-aged woman, kicked up a storm, accusing me of breaking a rule – albeit unsaid – pushing for the brown bag.

“Is lifafay mai rakhye, allowed nahi hai!” (Keep it in this brown bag, it’s not allowed!)

Her yelling left me in a bit of shock. I wasn’t expecting such a strong protest from a fellow woman. So I looked around in search of support but all I got were blank stares from niqaabs and hijabs wrapped with lawn dupattas. No woman stepped forward to speak up as my slut-shaming continued. The one who did step forward, though, was my aunt, but only to put the pack of pads in the brown bag.

“Bura lagta hai beta (It looks bad dear),” she muttered, siding with the moral police in-charge of the aisle.

Stunned and overpowered, I left the aisle. But that was the last time I succumbed to the idiosyncratic pressure of using brown bags. The next time I resisted the brown bag was at a high-end mini-mart at a gas station in Gulistan e Jauhar, an area where Karachi’s upwardly mobile, mostly conservative, middle class resides. I frequent that convenience store as it is nearby my house and has everything I need. One day, I went to the store to pick up some things, including a pack of pads. While deciding which one to buy, the aisle manager came up to me, asking if I’m looking for a brown bag.

“I’m not, but thanks,” I said with a smile, continuing my hunt for the cheapest buy.

But I got interrupted again, this time by a different aisle manager.

“Ma’am, do you need a brown bag?” he asked “For what?” I answered with a question, a little frustrated this time. “No, I don’t want a brown bag, but thanks.” I turned him away too.

Finding the right pads, I placed the pack in the basket with everything else. As I made my way to the cashier, I felt the public gaze in the store following me around. It felt like people were more interested in my shopping basket than in buying their Digestive biscuits. My turn came. I began placing the items in my basket on the counter for the cashier to scan. When his eyes fell on the purple and pink pack, he called one of his subordinates, telling him to fetch… guess what… the haunting brown bag! At this point, I was just trying to contain my laughter at the confusion I had caused among the staff, all men.

“I don’t need the brown bag. Everybody knows what’s inside the brown bag. What are we trying and failing to hide?”

He didn’t have an answer; my own mother wouldn’t have an answer. He was smart, though.

“There’s no need,” he said to his subordinate who had made the run and brought us the brown bag.

The cashier and I then exchanged smiles. I picked up my shopping bags and left the store, thanking goodness for no moral policing, for the cashier’s common sense and courtesy, and the shopping trip to have ended on a rather uplifting note. Plea to the censor board I can only hope Mr Mobashir Hasan, chairperson of the Central Board of Film Censors, understands this concept too. He too was born because his mother menstruated, or well, because she missed that menstrual cycle; there is nothing immoral about talking about periods. Films can spark important conversations and lead us to solutions for issues that have marred the masses for a long time, issues that aren’t discussed because someone thinks they’re too “taboo”. So the least we can do, as a state, is facilitate the conversation and address these “taboo” subjects as silence and unawareness is far more damaging. The fault, then, I think isn’t in movies like PadMan, but in the conscious denial of people governing these bodies (no pun intended, again).

This year is definitely a year for women. At the start of 2018, the careers of Harvey Weinstein, Roger Ailes (now deceased), Bill O’Reilly, Bill Cosby and Kevin Spacey (although the allegations were from men) decimated due to sexual assault allegations. It seems the propensity for women to come forward and report indecent behaviour by powerful men is now on the rise.

Now it seems every faucet of life, from sporting events and Larry Nassar’s incarceration, to Hollywood and now the world of charities and NGOs, is slowly turning on. Recently, atrocious allegations were revealed by news outlets of the use of prostitutes by directors of charitable organisations, in particular Oxfam.

The allegations centre on the use of prostitutes after the devastating Haitian earthquake in 2010. Scores of people were killed and buildings were razed to the ground in a matter of seconds. It would be natural to assume that many of those ‘prostitutes’ had turned to the profession as a way of feeding themselves in that crisis-stricken period. Some allegations were made that suggest Oxfam employees offered food in exchange for sex. The impact of the revelations has been shambolic for Oxfam, which saw a dip in its donations from members of the public, but also a severe warning from the British government. The latter have threatened to halt foreign aid until ample evidence is found of charities handling sexual assaults appropriately.

When imparting foreign aid, the government has to be assured that the taxpayer’s money is being appropriately spent and not in any way being used to elicit immoral or questionable behaviour. The deputy head of Oxfam International resigned as a result of the allegations breaking out. The alleged perpetrator has already left and joined another charity in Bangladesh, which is another grave cause for concern. When allegations were reported, they were routinely ignored, adding to the odious nature of the revelations.

After the Oxfam scandal, Doctors Without Borders was revealed to have dealt with sexual assault and harassment cases of their own. Last year, they had received 40 allegations of sexual misconduct and had acted upon 29 of these cases by firing 19 of their employees. When there is an organisation in position of power, especially a foreign aid group that is supposed to provide for those who don’t have the resources, it is likely that this power will be misused, and unfortunately, this is exactly what is happening.

These charities are supposed to be carrying out acts which restore faith in humanity but they, in turn, have clearly destroyed even the last shred of self-respect and dignity these women had.

These charities provide a source of vital aid and support to humans who are at the lowest ebb of society, hence absolute transparency is imperative. Real changes will need to be made before these charities are entrusted with government money. This will involve having rigorous background checking on each individual being hired within the charity, especially for high profile roles.

More women need to be hired as well to change the gender imbalance in high profile roles. Lastly, clear accountability standards should be put in place and a disciplinary tribunal held immediately if allegations of misconduct are made.

Not only have allegations of sexual misconduct with women but also child abuse scandals have surfaced against Oxfam. According to a 2008 report by Save the Children, child sexual abuse cases were prevalent in Haiti, South Sudan and Ivory Coast. Even though they did not name a certain organisation, highlighting the location was enough for everyone to get the hint. Children were being forced into sex and slavery in return for basic necessities such as food. Oxfam admitted that it knew about the cases and claimed that they were working on tackling the issues, however, the measures installed for the purpose were “insufficient”. It is absolutely shameful and disgusting to see even a reputed organisation like Oxfam being involved in such a heinous crime (ADDED).

The world is filled with predators. In most cases, the protectors are the ones who attack the victim. It is saddening to see that foreign aid organisations have stooped so low that they are now taking advantage of people who have lost everything and are willing to do anything to survive. For reputed organisations to be involved in such huge scandals require major negligence on their part. Are there no background checks done before recruiting and sending members to provide aid? How in the world did the problem get so out of hand that the vast number of victims is absolutely frightening?

A detailed public inquiry into the nature of these allegations is warranted if Oxfam or other charities continue allowing behaviour like this to continue. It has become far too common to overlook allegations of sexual abuse, harassment and rape, but the #MeToo movement, coupled with high profile abuse cases, have made it far more difficult to turn a blind eye to them. Even the fashion world, which is known for being notoriously seedy, has faced a backlash with several women coming forward to blame Demarchelier, Diana’s former photographer, of sexual abuse against models. It is high time the limelight is placed on these companies to improve internal standards and not just let this news be used as fodder for journalists. This is definitely the year for women, but standards need to improve otherwise the status quo will continue.

“So do you work or are you just a housewife?”

I remember being asked this question many times by people I was meeting for the first time. I also remember asking other women the same insensitive question, simply because I too, like so many of us, had been conditioned to only value work that gets remuneration in return. Looking back, the years during which I took a hiatus from work as a journalist, because I was looking after a home and my family, were the years I perhaps worked the hardest. Even physically. Imagine for a moment that the women all around us – the mothers, the wives, the daughters and daughters-in-law, the sisters and the sisters-in-law – demanded they be paid for the care and services they provide to their families. Imagine what their bank statement would look like at the end of the year! Let’s look at the numbers. Around the world, women spend two to 10 times more time on unpaid care work and domestic work than men – work that is not often counted in labour statistics. Countries have valued unpaid care work between 15% and 39% of national GDP. Data shows that women often have a higher total work burden than men when paid and unpaid work is combined. On March 7, 2018, Data2X launched a new report –“Invisible No More? A Methodology and Policy Review of How Time Use Surveys Measure Unpaid Work” – with 18 case studies of countries that have started harnessing time use (TU) surveys to measure unpaid work and generate policy change regarding many issues relevant to social development. This is, in turn, making the world look at the tangible value of unpaid care and household work. The report defines unpaid care and household work as work done by people to take care of their households and others – everyday unsung chores like cooking, cleaning, caring for children, the ill, and the elderly, and many other important tasks. So many women among us are super women, literally. They do the jobs of cooks, cleaners, drivers, nurses, tuition teachers, psychological counsellors. They manage homes, finances and relationships. Any study of geriatrics shows that it is mostly, if not always, daughters who can be seen serving old parents and even parents-in-law. TU surveys are important tools to understand where we, as members of the society, spend our most valuable asset – time. TU surveys, as the aforementioned report states, are quantitative summaries of how people spend their time over a specific period and how much time is spent doing each activity. These surveys help collect data that can be used to improve economic and social policies and have been used to advocate for policies that reduce the care burden, including expanding care for preschool children, elderly people, and people with disabilities. They inform and promote child protection policies by highlighting child labour and promoting broader child welfare systems. They help countries better value the contribution of unpaid care work to an economy, relative to GDP. Once we know who is spending time doing what in a society, countries can drive public campaigns to promote shared responsibilities in the home. Today, we are celebrating International Women’s Day. And these issues can no longer be avoided. In rural areas, the load of carrying water still disproportionately falls on the women of the world because men, traditionally, do work that gets financial support for the family. But imagine if the women in rural Pakistan started charging for carrying the water back home. After all, this disparity does not only cost women time but also energy, and caloric requirements of water-fetchers increase – a requirement which is often not met for women. This is why now emphasis is being placed on highlighting the importance of men sharing the load of household chores with their women. But what happens practically? The lion’s share of the food is given to the man because, hey, he is the one who earns. Managing a home, giving birth to children and then feeding them – it is a lot of unsung heroic work – one that needs to be appreciated. It’s high time. As the Data2X report mentions, it is encouraging to see that slowly but surely, measuring reliably and comprehensively the unpaid household and care work traditionally performed by women has risen in prominence as a major challenge for official statistics. Last year, in an encouraging initiative, the government of Sindh stood poised to adopt a policy for home-based workers (HBWs), making it the first province in the country to implement such a policy. Nonetheless, the fact remains that the list of home-based workers generally does not include the work women do at home. Data2X’s new report mentions that in 2017, India’s Ministry of Labour and Employment’s Maternity Benefit (Amendment) Act recognising women’s time spent in care work, went into effect. Such policies are needed in all developing countries. The time has come that not just men, but also women, start recognising the immense contribution of women in the survival of a family and a society. Every woman works, even though she may not get paid for it. So let’s not dismiss their contribution, for they are the axis around which a society revolves. [poll id="780"]

For this year’s International Women’s Day, Pakistani women from Lahore, Karachi and Islamabad have decided to stick it out together, get out on the streets of their respective cities, and march to reclaim their space in the public sphere. The event, called the Aurat March, is planned and organised entirely by a diverse group of women belonging to different ethnicities, classes and sections of our society. The march itself is not linked to a particular organisation, nor is it initiated or funded by any political parties or groups, and all women (and men) are welcome! https://twitter.com/MJibranNasir/status/971364518130536448 Pakistani women from all stages of life getting together to organise the Aurat March has been an absolutely phenomenal and life-changing experience, to say the least. I can say with certainty about the march in Lahore – where I was part of the group of women who organised the event – that it has taken a lot of passion and dedicated effort to plan this peaceful demonstration, which is to start at Hamdard Hall on Lyton Road at 4pm, and will go all the way to Charring Cross crossing the Punjab Assembly. https://twitter.com/AuratMarch2018/status/970629258778464257 Across the world and throughout history, we have seen women on the front line of various movements and revolutions, as they came out to demand their right to vote, or to protest crimes against their gender. As they pushed for more inclusivity and progress, their passion was often mistaken for fury, and they were declared hysteric or crazy, and treated accordingly. In Pakistan alone, who can forget the work done by organisations such as the Women’s Action Forum (WAF) to reclaim the status of women, at a time when the state itself was treating them as second class citizens? So many women from the older generation of feminists have poured their blood and soul and fought to ensure the position women are in today, and today we march to honour their legacy. Over the past several years, Pakistan has had more of an awakening when it comes to women’s rights. More and more women are taking note of the scale of injustice and violence against women and the absence of basic rights for them in the country, and as a result, are becoming more aware of the everyday sexism they face in private and public spheres. The past year, in particular, where the news cycle was dominated with stories of women being raped and murdered, has made it imperative for there to exist a unity amongst these women in order to tackle the very real issues they face in our society. And perhaps it is losing a champion in the face of Asma Jahangir that has made a political demonstration the apt way to pay our respects and honour the woman who fought tirelessly for our rights, in an era where the system was against us. Today, women will join hands and participate in the Aurat March to show solidarity not only for other women, but also against a misogynistic culture that unfortunately continues to prevail in every part of the country. Perhaps this will sound cliché, but no one can deny that women’s rights are gravely important for the functioning of a society. It is a fact that, for any country to move from developing to developed, the women have to be educated and be more involved. What women want – what everyone should want – is a society in which women from all ethnic backgrounds, religious communities, including low income, working class, displaced, refugee and differently-abled women, as well as persons with all gender identities, can exercise autonomy over their lives and build a peaceful, healthy environment, one where they can rely on a fair justice system to support them in times of need. Therefore, this International Women’s Day, women march with an aim. Not only do we demand safety, rights and justice from the state, we also aim to show resistance by reclaiming our spaces on the streets, which have been largely restricted to and occupied by men. The Aurat March will be an example of power through mass action, as we join hands to share and fight the struggle together. https://twitter.com/AuratMarch2018/status/971330963337826304 The agenda of this march is to demand the most fundamental rights as women; human rights that are so easily granted and reserved for men. These demands include, but are not limited to, an end to violence against women, labour rights, reproductive rights, environmental justice, anti-sexual assault laws, wage equality, fair political representation and opportunities, education equality, equality for the transgender community and an end to child marriage and honour killings. This form of political mobilisation of women is something many of us in the current generation are seeing for the first time, and our main objective here is to ensure that Pakistani feminists are part of the bigger movement to construct a world where there is no discrimination or oppression. https://twitter.com/nidkirm/status/970971601058623488 With the Lahore Aurat March, we have attempted and tried our best to engage women from all backgrounds. Some of the organisers are experienced in building such movements, but for a lot of us, this is a first, which is why we all unanimously concluded that we are allowed the time and space to make some mistakes and learn from our experiences. As long as we get women out on the streets and start a conversation around women’s issues, we believe that, per se, would be a big accomplishment at this early stage. On a personal level, many women in the organising team also visited various schools, colleges, and events to help spread the word. In addition, each of us has been reaching out to domestic workers, factory workers, and women who work at home, and have tried to involve as many women as we can from the informal sector. Representation from all corners of the society matters immensely, and no women’s march can take place without the involvement of women from all spheres of life, especially in Pakistan, where women are more commonly found in the private sphere than in the public one. Yes, the internet and social media are great tools for advocating change, raging, and even for running campaigns. However, truly being part of a movement actually means getting out there and displaying as a united front what it means to be passionate about equality, dignity, safety and opportunity. https://www.instagram.com/p/BgDJOpVHBJh/?taken-by=purniya My only hope is that our resistance continues to be relentless, and this kind of solidarity proves to be visible every year from now on. The Aurat March has taught so many women the importance of mobilisation for a cause; a mobilisation that has been largely absent for women, even as the rest of the country mobilises for political causes on a regular basis. It was heartening to work with a great group of women, as we helped each other learn and participate in the first of what will hopefully be a growing list of marches. While the march itself was always the end goal, it remains an honour for me to be part of this wonderful group of supportive, intelligent and driven women, with whom organising this event was just as fun as it was empowering! To all the women in Karachi, Lahore and Islamabad – this International Women’s Day, get out there and march!

Menstruation – the one time of the month that most girls and women dread. The number of visits to the bathroom increases, while the prospect of wearing white has never seemed more frightening. Home remedies and the odd paracetamol sound like the ideal solution; if only we weren’t preoccupied with the agony of abdominal pain that comes along with the package. Also part of the package is making sure that our bathrooms, handbags and coat pockets are well stocked with sanitary pads. However, this is a privilege only afforded to women on one side of the world.

On the other side, in developing countries like Pakistan, most women struggle to buy sanitary pads; not only due to widespread poverty, but also due to a general lack of awareness when it comes to bleeding in a hygienic manner. Instead, primitive methods like the cloth remain largely prevalent, and girls make it a habit to skip school for a few days while they are visited by Aunt Flo. Thus begins a cycle, where missing school out of shame leads to falling behind and ultimately losing interest in an education, and maybe even falling victim to child marriage.

However, there is now an easy solution in sight for Pakistani women – the newly introduced Recircle Cup.

This menstrual cup is a feminine hygiene product similar to sanitary pads and tampons. The cup needs to be boiled before use (and cooled down, obviously), inserted, emptied after it becomes full (after up to 12 hours), washed, and then reinserted. Its greatest appeal lies in being reusable, due to being made of medical grade silicone, and as a plus point, it’s also friendly to the environment.

After discovering this Pakistani product, I shared the relevant information about the recircle cup with a friend, who read it and promptly raised an eyebrow.

“Will girls be able to use this?” she asked.
I shrugged my shoulders and replied, “why shouldn’t they?”
“What if it affects our virginity?” she whispered, with her hands cupped over her mouth.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. As I spoke to other girls and researched on this, the response barely changed. Young girls have serious concerns about an object being inserted into their vaginas, and worry that it will somehow lead to them “losing their virginity”. It’s not my friend’s fault, nor that of any of the other girls who share similar concerns.

Despite being British, I still hail from a traditional Pakistani background where I’ve been brought up with the notion – like all the other girls – that sex before marriage is the worst possible thing one can do. Despite all the freedom and privileges some of us are lucky to have, being a virgin has always been non-negotiable. The idea of inserting something, be it a cup or a tampon, just sounds wrong to most of us; which probably explains why a lot of South Asian girls are reluctant to use tampons as well.

I replied to my friend’s concerns by enquiring what virginity is, and what it entails to be a virgin. Obviously, she answered correctly – a virgin is someone who has never had sexual intercourse. I then asked her, given the very definition of being a virgin, why she is so worried about losing her virginity to a tampon or a menstrual cup.

She didn’t say anything.

Of course, this isn’t just about the menstrual cup. The doubts and arguments generated by the menstrual cup suggest how far we have come, but at the same time, how little we have accomplished when it comes to women’s health and menstrual awareness, and highlight the challenges which remain ahead. This uneasiness also proves that despite the feasibility and effectiveness of a product, our decisions remain rooted in superstition and myths that are primarily a result of the sexism in our society.

Rather than believing these myths which have been passed down from generation to generation, what Pakistani women need is real education on how our bodies work. For starters, we need more awareness of what periods actually involve and what virginity truly means. The human body is a clever thing and the woman’s hymen – the thin tissue surrounding the opening of the vagina – comes in different kinds and sizes. Sometimes a woman’s hymen will break due to sports or other activities, and she will not even realise it. The hymen is also very good at stretching like an elastic band, rather than tearing entirely, which is why some girls don’t bleed straight away after the first time they’ve experienced intercourse. Of course, some girls are simply born without one.

The existence (or lack thereof) of the hymen, or the absence of bleeding during intercourse, are hence factors that are not directly correlated to a woman losing her virginity. Only a woman knows for sure if she is or is not a virgin, in which case, a menstrual cup inside her vagina should do no harm. What we have here is a development that could possibly work for all women. On one hand, privileged women will be happy at the fact that the product is convenient and is an environmental-friendly way to bleed. On the other, women who struggle with poverty will also not have to worry about choosing between sanitary hygiene or having a meal. All sectors of women can relax, as there is no constant anxiety over leakages. However, the big ‘what if’ always tends to come in between women and the solution to make their lives a little bit easier. This shows that fear and doubt is more in control of our lives and that we, women, always let ourselves be bullied into trudging along to the society’s tunes as we comply and do what is expected of us, not what we want, and what is actually good for us. As women, we have the right over our bodies, and the right to make the choice that we think is right for ourselves. In any case, it is time we take hold of that right and stand up for what we believe is good for us. Only we can defeat the fear and doubts that hold us back, and the only way we can do this is by taking initiative and making our own decisions.

So choose recircle, or don’t. But do look it up, ask questions, and step out of the fear and doubts that hold you back. It is high time we appreciate the possibilities that exist today for Pakistani women, and no matter what, retain our independence, and fight for the right to make the decisions when it comes to our bodies.

Being the fourth daughter my parents were blessed with, I always used to ask them if they had ever wished I had been born a boy. I spent a lot of time wondering if, after having three girls, they were disappointed to see yet another daughter instead of a son. To my relief, my parents always responded to this question with a resounding ‘no’. Rather, they would get surprised and question me instead on the kind of nonsense that fills up my brain with questions such as these. It is true that I have never felt loved any less by my parents because I was the fourth girl child. But then why did I ask them such a question in the first place? I did it, not through any fault on their part, but rather, because I was growing up in a society where I would see heartfelt joy at the prospect of having a baby boy, but a restrained smile at best at the prospect of welcoming a baby girl. I was part of a society where gender predictor tests would decide whether the parents wanted to keep the baby or not, and where I heard the now familiar statement countless times,

“Dua karo iss dafa beta ho.” (Pray that it’s a son this time.)

I can recall how, every time I was asked how many brothers I have, I would receive a sympathetic expression upon revealing that I have none. People would respond to my revelation with,

“Chalo koi baat nahi, is mein bhi koi maslihat hogi.” (Don’t worry, it must be in your best interest.)

Unwittingly, my mind was adapting to the fallacious belief that not having a brother was a cause for concern. Being a little girl and constantly hearing such remarks in an androcentric society, it was normal for me to come to believe that only boys could bring real joy to a family. Consequently, I started to believe being a boy to be greater than being a girl. As I could not do anything about the fact that I had been born a girl, I then started calling myself the ‘beta’ (son) my parents never had. I thought I was consoling my parents by telling them things such as,

“Mein hun na aap ka beta.” (I will be your son.)

or even,

“Mein aap ka beta ban k dekhaon gi.” (I will prove myself by becoming a son to you.)

Society taught me to accept these patriarchal ideas so willingly, I did not even realise that by calling myself a son, I was only setting the bar lower for my own gender. For some ludicrous reason, I thought I was being a man by going out, speaking up, having an opinion and taking part in discussions with the men around me. What I did not know – or rather, what society ensured I did not learn – was that everything I was doing under pretence of being more like a man was in actuality just a fundamental right of my existence. In my naiveté, I kept calling myself the ‘beta’ of the house, as I kept doing completely normal activities under the impression that only boys could do them. Growing up, I came across the reality of violence against women being endemic in our society. Rape, harassment, acid attacks, domestic violence and women being repressed by and large, all of it started to make me question why a female is deprived of her fundamental rights. It didn’t take me long to come to the realisation that the rules women were forced to live by were all man-made. Slowly, this conditioning I had grown up with started to wear off. No longer wanting to live a life of suppression, I started opposing the patriarchy as well as I could. Every morning, I woke up and went to work, just like the men around me. I did the same job, went to the same work pace, and came home at the same time as the men around me. By doing so, I was not comparing myself to them; I was only doing what human beings are supposed to do to provide for themselves. However, after coming back home, it was I who would go to the kitchen to prepare dinner, while the men around me would sit idly on the sofa, one leg over the other, leisurely surfing through the channels on TV. This is not the only time I came to realise how different women’s lives are as compared to men. Pregnancy was the one thing I had read and heard about, but only when my sister gave birth to her first child did it dawn on me the strength and resilience it takes for a woman to bring a child into this world. Her strength awed me, but it also made me feel ashamed; for we never seem to give enough respect to women for going through what they go through tirelessly and without complaint. Women all around us are achieving phenomenal things, and yet our society remains stuck on celebrating the arrival of a boy, and mourning the arrival of a girl. I have heard many parents calling their girls ‘mera beta’ (my son), but never have I heard a boy being called ‘meri beti’ (my daughter). This unwittingly lopsided gender talk upsets me. After all, what makes one gender get all the recognition, while the other gets shamed for its very existence? Why do we continue to perceive girls as a burden; to be wed off as early as possible because she is “kisi aur ki amaanat” (belonging to someone else)? Why is it that as soon as a girl is born, parents start calculating the hit their finances will take, because now they will have to pay for her marriage? When we think about it, the only real difference between having a son and a daughter is our unfortunate mindset. Thus, I have stopped calling myself a beta now. The reason isn’t the precedence of one gender over another, but simply because I am not a beta. In fact, and very proudly so, I am a beti. I am a beti, and I wear flowers in my hair, jhumkay in my ears and bangles on my wrists as I go out and fight to reclaim the spot taken from me and from many other betian (daughters) by an unfair system. I am a beti who is striving to fight against the stigma of gender bias, and who shall from now on continue to derive only strength from calling herself a beti.

I rarely wear makeup to work. Most days, I wear none. Not even BB cream, or eyeliner, or even a basic sort of lipstick. I don’t wear makeup, and I get asked about it, every single day.

“Kya hua, kisi se larayi hui hai?” (What happened, have you had a fight with someone?) “Thori si lipstick tou laga lo, acha lagta hai.” (Put some lipstick on at least, it looks nice.) “You don’t want people to think you don’t care about your appearance.” “Listen, women should put some effort into their looks. Istarah achi image thori jaata hai.” (Otherwise it doesn’t present a good image.) “Dekho; presentation matters.” (Look; presentation matters.)

As I’ve spent more and more time working full-time – listening to workplace banter, being part of the audience during everyday office jokes and stories, watching what employees and organisations do, and why they do it – I have come to understand just how much of a woman’s value lies in her appearance. Women, like men, change with time; with additional responsibilities, with shifting priorities, with new life experiences, and most importantly, with age. But unlike men, women at 40, 50 or even 60 years of age are still made to compete, appearance-wise, against 20-year-olds, by a culture that refuses to value them for their brains, their personalities, their strength and their hearts. Women are judged and side-lined for their wrinkles, their bellies, their thinner hair. Older women are passed up for opportunities they deserve by men who want to be surrounded by “chicks”. This is inherently a reductive and sexist way of looking at the incredibly smart and talented young women out there. But it’s not just men. Older women are also judged by other women who have internalised misogynistic messages when it comes to what constitutes as a ‘professional’ appearance. Thus, men are allowed to grow old, to grow wrinkles and pot bellies, and still retain their worth. Women in the workplace, however, aren’t allowed to grow old at all. I stopped wearing makeup to work because I’m sick of having to conform to a culture where women are forced to spend large amounts of their time, money, and effort to maintain an appearance meant to cater to the male gaze. Where expecting them to hide their perceived imperfections has become so normal that a girl with a bare face seems “beemar” (ill). Currently in my 20s, I am aware of the power I can wield because of how I may choose to look – and I do not want this power. I want to be rid of it. I want to be allowed to grow old. I want all women to be allowed to age comfortably, and without the fear of losing out on opportunities they deserve, so they can spend their time focusing on the things that matter, on the innumerable ways in which they can be passionate and brilliant and extraordinary as individuals, and as human beings. I want women to be powerful because they are smart. I want women to be powerful because they are driven. I want women to be powerful because they have achieved a dazzling number of goals in their lives. So, the next time you see my face as it is, au naturel, please don’t ask me what is wrong. Absolutely nothing is wrong with me, but maybe it’s time we wonder what is wrong with our system. I feel it necessary to add that this blog is not in any way against makeup. Makeup is a powerful tool for self-expression and healing, and many women make the informed choice to use it – more power to them. This is about the pressure women feel to meet impossible standards of beauty, especially as they age, because so much of their career paths and life opportunities depend upon their physical appearances. Whether we want to admit it or not, there is something extremely messed-up with the world and how we imagine, assess and value the women around us. This is something that is affecting us all, irrespective of our genders, which is why we all need to question what we can do to fight this fight. My weapon of choice is my bare face. What’s yours?

Adnan Sarwar, the famed director cum musician of the biographical sports film Shah (2015), is back to mesmerise filmgoers with another biopic – Motorcycle Girl. This time, he dramatises the life of a young Pakistani woman whose real life motorcycle adventures were highlighted across the globe, and played a significant role in breaking the stereotypes surrounding women in a conservative society. Although, Sarwar’s directorial debut Shah, based on life-story of Olympian boxer, Hussain Shah, who won the bronze medal in the 1988 Summer Olympics, received mixed reviews upon its release in Pakistan, his latest venture has been much anticipated. Produced by Jami, the breathtaking trailer garnered positive reviews. With Sohai Ali Abro as the leading lady, everyone is praising and applauding the efforts of the director and the lead actress for flawlessly portraying the courageous woman who broke all taboos. Written and directed by Sarwar, the movie’s main theme is one close to the heart of every woman. It will bolster the notion of women claiming public spaces, and reinforce the idea that women riding motorbikes is a normal routine – all in a sensitive yet entertaining manner. As revealed by the trailer, Motorcycle Girl is based on the life of a 21-year-old woman, Zenith Irfan, played by Abro, who fulfilled her late baba’s (father’s) dream of travelling to Khunjerab pass on a bike. Encouraged by her mother, played by Samina Peerzada, she takes a 3,200 kilometres solo bike trip through the northern areas of Pakistan to reach the Pak-China border. The preview opens with a disinterested Abro sitting in front of her husband-to-be, played by Ali Kazmi, who corrects her Urdu pronunciation. The daily struggles of Abro are further revealed in the trailer, which she faces while travelling in buses, rickshaws and vans. This everyday hullabaloo eventually persuades her to learn to ride a motorcycle to ease her life. However, her boss, played by Sarmad Khoosat, harshly discourages her by telling her,

“We are part of a society system. From tomorrow, you will not come to office on a scooter or motorcycle...”

At first, she doubts her goal and suffers from low self-esteem. Soon, however, she emerges as an audacious woman who dusts off all the discouraging annotations. Concealing herself beneath a helmet, jacket and heavy boots, she starts her baba’s motorbike and commences the unforgettable journey of the countryside – the serene Pakistan.

The cinematography looks very impressive, while the acting and dialogues mingle in the right proportion. It seems in the absence of a male lead, Abro, the Fair and Lovely Ka Jalwa diva, will now be in the limelight for an unglamorous role. Here she gets the opportunity to reveal her talent and deliver a powerful performance while playing a real-life character.

The two-minute trailer immediately catches your attention, as viewers are not only left awe-struck by the protagonist, but are also curious to find out more about Zenith’s determination and her motorcycle journey. The film will not only show her backstory as she tackles day-to-day hindrances, but will cover other imperative issues pertaining to women in a conventional set up, and the fight against old-fashioned societal norms.

Such thought-provoking women-oriented movies are the need of the hour and can help submerge decades-old perceptions by curbing gender stereotypes. A couple of years ago, Aneeqa Ali, a cyclist, was harassed and injured for riding a bike in Lahore. This episode sparked the formation of an annual bike rally by the Girls at Dhabas, with the aim to curtail hostile misogynistic behaviour and patriarchal norms by encouraging more women to ride their bikes or cycles. The third annual bike rally recently held in Lahore, Karachi and Islamabad was appreciated by many, but also faced a backlash on social media. The hashtag ‘GirlsOnBikes’ showed mixed reactions, as questions were raised about the main agenda behind the bike rally in an Islamic country, as well as the socio-religious limitations. https://twitter.com/dignitarydani/status/980541339900219394 https://twitter.com/saqib_ali_09/status/980901829604249603 https://twitter.com/yousufsameed/status/980861320387022848 Unfortunately, young women themselves were demoralising their gender, opposing the initiative of reclaiming public spaces by labelling it ‘vulgarity’. https://twitter.com/ZainebHere/status/980385293915353088 https://twitter.com/Mominaaa123/status/980526061216845824 https://twitter.com/Hira_Ali001/status/980850650996191233 In such a scenario, strong support for such a cause is much needed to hold back social stigmas and cultural taboos. If you are a person who believes in encouraging women breaking stereotypes and societal barriers, then this inspiring biopic is most definitely a must-watch for you! Motorcycle Girl is scheduled to be released in theatres on April 20, 2018. All photos: Screenshots

Pink balls, day-night Tests, four-day Tests. I thought they liked to tinker with Test cricket only, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. A few months back, there was a 10-10 tournament in the UAE; not to mention a tournament played on ice in freezing temperature somewhere in Europe. And now, it’s the ‘100 balls’ proposed tournament in England. Who would’ve thought that cricket administrators would toy with the shortest and the most ‘lucrative’ format, the T20. There is a misconception that T20 came into being in 2000s. The T20 format has a history, of course not as rich as ODI and Test cricket, but the format evolved over the years; unlike the ‘100’ which perhaps is nothing more than someone’s imagination at the moment. In the mid-70s, a few Karachi lads installed some lights on a street of Nazimabad and played a cricket match, consisting of 20 overs each. The idea spread like wildfire and it became the most loved format at the club level in the city and later in all parts of country; especially in the holy month of Ramazan when aspiring cricketers played their heart out till the time of dawn. Moreover, Karachi Gymkhana has a long history of hosting 20-20 matches in the metropolis city of Pakistan – Karachi. There is even a 1978 clipping of an Australian newspaper doing rounds on social media, which suggests that 20-overs cricket was being played at some level in Australia in that era. https://twitter.com/AndrewGigacz/status/486479521298669569 One of the reasons of T20’s unprecedented success is that ‘they’ did leave the idea to marinate before implementing it in the domestic structure. Remember Cricket Max? It was nothing more than a festival that died a death in New Zealand. I’m afraid the fate of ‘the 100’ looks no different. According to Andrew Strauss, England director of cricket, the 100 format will attract ‘mums and kids’ towards cricket. He should just watch the Indian Premier League (IPL) and the Pakistan Super League (PSL) to change his opinion. The subcontinent could be the best ‘test case’ as far as women and kids are concerned. The passion and verve of women and children in both the leagues is immense. Most of the Indian and Pakistani women take great interest in the games of their respective leagues. In the recent PSL final in Karachi, despite many security hardships, women and children flocked to the National Stadium in Karachi. I’ve seen a seven-year-old boy convert to cricket after watching the Women’s World Cup 2017 tournament. And it wasn’t a ‘smash bang wallop’, but a 50-overs per side tournament. Falling in love with cricket is like falling in love with a boy or a girl. It’s the moment which counts, not the gimmickry surrounding it. Most coaches all over the world would say “stick to the basics”; I wish organisers would pay heed to this advice. Strauss also reckons that ‘The 100’ will reduce the duration of the match. I’m absolutely flabbergasted to think that a difference of mere 20 balls would make a huge difference of innings playing time. It’s the ‘strategic’ time outs and gimmickry in T20s which makes the duration of innings exceed the average time. Interestingly, a cricket nation which is contemplating to make the game shorter has the best average time per innings in T20 tournaments. Out of all the T20 leagues around the world, the NatWest Blast in England consumed the least amount of average time (85 minutes) to complete an innings in 2017-18. https://twitter.com/RicFinlay/status/986034923935969280 According to organisers, the tournament could have 15 six-ball overs in an innings with the final over consisting 10 balls. Isn’t it ironic that a format supposed to ‘simplify’ cricket for women and children will only make things more complicated?

I always gushed about how my Mother’s hands were beautiful; though, all wonder had ceased as I realised... Her hands tenderly held my vulnerable self as I opened my eyes in this big-bad world; her face comforted me, there was an angel in this world Allah had sent me down to, I was in safe hands. Her hands determinedly raised me to my tiny feet, every time I fell to the ground in the attempt to walk; her will to support me still gives me strength from then till today. Her hands would swiftly push my swing as she pointed towards the sky, “Look Hira, you’re flying!” and I knew it, that I’d keeping soaring if she believed in me enough. Her hands gripped my own as she helped me trace the ‘A’ for ‘Apple’ for my very first pre-school assignment; how would I have known the joy of writing without her paving the path for me? Her hands gently traced verses of prayers upon my forehead each time I’d set out to run a race, I never returned without a medal; she made me invincible. Her hands cradled me each time a nightmare jolted me awake; I knew it then and there that the demons of my nightmare would have to go through her to get to me. Her hands wiped those seemingly infinite tears away, which otherwise would’ve never stopped; her touch healed my soul after every sorrow. Her hands are as magical as an elixir; which make any bitter medicine tolerable to gulp down and cure all illness. Her hands still affectionately feed me my food if “I don’t want to get my hands messy”; those are the meals which always somehow seem to be the most delicious. Her hands are my ultimate praise and severe critic as she pens down her thoughts about my work; she is the reason behind all my success. Her hands are what have changed my fate, shielded me from brutalities and made my dreams come true; each time her hands were raised in prayer, she gave me hope, the hope that it’ll all be okay, the hope that life will be kinder to me.

While Hollywood has always been very fond of remakes and spinoffs, it has more recently developed a fascination with female-centred continuations of beloved cinematic adventures and established franchises. From the 2016 Ghostbusters reboot to the upcoming The Expendabelles, The Hustle and The Rocketeers, several female-led reimagining are bringing old tales back to the big screen with a new twist. An example of this phenomenon currently in cinemas is, of course, the much-talked-about Ocean’s 8, the all-female spin-off from Steven Soderbergh’s Ocean’s trilogy. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MFWF9dU5Zc0 The action-comedy is centred on the character of Debbie Ocean (Sandra Bullock) – the younger sister of the (probably) late Danny Ocean – who is trying to pull off one of the biggest jewellery heists in history, while settling a score in the process. Just paroled from prison, Debbie wants to carry out a robbery she had been planning during her five-year stint in jail. Her target is the Toussaint – a $150 million necklace that will be worn by the famous Daphne Kluger (Anne Hathaway) at the lavish Met Gala. To steal the necklace, she assembles a team of skilled crooks: her former partner-in-crime Lou (Cate Blanchett), financially struggling fashion designer Rose Weil (Helena Bonham Carter), profiteer Tammy (Sarah Paulson), jeweller Amita (Mindy Kaling), hacker Nine Ball (Rihanna), and hustler Constance (Awkwafina). Together, the ladies must execute a sophisticated plan to get their hands on the bounty and not get caught in the process. But the heist is never as thrilling as it should be. Ocean’s 8 is a typical, by-the-numbers heist caper that never turns into something special. Directed by Gary Ross, the film is competently made and visually impressive, but not the masterpiece you would expect given the amount of talent attached to the project. There isn’t anything particularly ingenious about its plot. The obstacles are often disappointingly easy to overcome; everything falls into place a little too easily. Plus, as with many heist capers, a lot of the proceedings require so much suspension of disbelief that it gets exhausting. Other than the gender swap, the film brings nothing new to the genre. Its lack of originality may stem from the fact that the movie is in essence the spinoff of a remake, since Soderbergh’s Ocean’s trilogy was itself based on the Rat Pack film Ocean’s 11 (1960), and is essentially following a long-established template. But to their credit, the talented leading ladies at the heart of the film effortlessly elevate the mediocre material they have to work with. Ocean’s 8 is a rewarding opportunity to watch the terrific Bullock and Blanchett working together, their partnership smoothly driving the film. Hathaway steals the show in the guise of an airheaded celebrity whenever she’s onscreen. And Carter is always fun to watch. The rest of the supporting ensemble, however, often doesn’t have as much to say or do and little reason to interact, which gives them a lesser chance to develop their characters and build chemistry. The main cast, on the whole, is stellar. The problem here lies in the dull writing and the fairly standard execution. It’s good to have female presence onscreen, but it would have been even more rewarding to have the same behind the camera. Recruiting a female director and an all-female writing team could have perhaps given the movie a different voice and perspective. The film could have also used some more energy and tension, and more issues that weren’t resolved within 10 seconds. And a bit more amusing banter would have also helped. As it stands, Ocean’s 8 isn’t quite as fun as the trilogy that spawned it, and the heist it’s built upon is perhaps too slick for its own good. But it will help you while away a lazy summer evening, and it will definitely fill the “all-female heist caper” void in your life. All photos: Warner Bros

Dear Masjid Aunties, It’s common for you to undermine people who don’t meet your religious standards, especially in a place of worship. Converts get pulled out of prayer by the arm for not praying with an abaya. Women are publicly shamed and bashed for not wearing the hijab correctly. If someone doesn’t regularly go to the mosque, they’re looked down upon. It’s sad, but it’s a rampant issue in the women’s section of the masjid (mosque). Informing someone about something advised against is fine, but please, do so respectfully. Women at the mosque judge and gossip amongst themselves. This mentality can be intimidating and discourage Muslims from wanting to engage with their religious community. Imagine being the reason that someone doesn’t regularly attend the mosque for fear of being mocked and ostracised. Furthermore, please be mindful of your actions toward Muslims who are outside of your clique and race. Community is such a crucial part of Islam. And older generations, such as your own, who think that it’s okay to impose your own beliefs on other Muslims, are creating a division. Also, stop thinking someone can’t suggest ideas for improvement for the benefit of the community just because they’re not a part of the mosque’s committee board. The social hierarchy within the mosque is a twisted form of culture. Just because you regularly go to the mosque doesn’t mean you should get special treatment. Coming in late and moving people to get a spot at the front of the women’s section is inconsiderate. Inform one another of your religious standpoints and seek to educate one another. Don’t vilify those you don’t agree with by expressing your views in a derogatory manner. Whether or not someone is a pious person is not defined purely by how often they go to a place of worship. It’s not possible for one person to understand another person’s relationship with God. You don’t know anyone else’s intentions, whether they get up for Fajr every morning, or ask for forgiveness every night in the comfort of their home. Ask yourselves if you’re following Islam when you ridicule other Muslims for not practicing the “correct way”. Muslims don’t all worship in the same manner. You are not God, so stop acting like you are by measuring how religious another Muslim is based on your own analysis. I understand you are trying to quiet people down so others can worship in silence, but screaming at people to do zikr (recite) and pray instead of socialising is not your job. Whether or not Muslims come to the mosque to worship or catch up with a neighbour is between them and God. It’s not for you to judge. Instead, be the welcoming force at the masjid. Make Muslims feel embraced. Be the reason converts actively seek out somewhere to have iftar during Ramazan and people to celebrate with on Eid. When addressing the women’s section, stop speaking in Urdu because not everyone will be able to understand it. Stop assuming someone who isn’t Middle Eastern or South Asian, must be a convert. Communicate with and include Muslims from all walks of life. Make them feel welcome in Pakistani and Arab communities. Lastly, to those who see someone being mistreated at the mosque, step in and politely call them out. Even if it means calling out your relatives and elders, do so courteously. According to the Pew Research Centre, 100,000 people convert to Islam annually, but roughly the same number of people leave the religion too. Don’t be the reason someone has to think twice about Islam because they’re practicing “incorrectly” according to your standards. You need to rethink your societal stereotypes and strive to make everyone feel at ease, starting at the mosque.

“All mankind is from Adam and Eve, an Arab has no superiority over a non-Arab nor a non-Arab has any superiority over an Arab; also a white has no superiority over a black nor a black has any superiority over white except by piety and good action.” – Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) from his last sermon.

Sincerely, Amina Khan This post was originally published on BrownGirlMagazine and republished with permission.

Can somebody stop Sheikh Rasheed Ahmad from spluttering venom, please? I am sure ‘somebody’ could positively do that! While social media is rife with news of Reham Khan’s book launching around elections time, there is a social media battle of verbal abuses going on between Reham and Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf (PTI) leaders and followers – the latter accusing her of their leader’s character assassination, who is at the moment focused on elections to become the next prime minister of Pakistan. After celebrity-turned-analyst Hamza Ali Abbasi claimed that Reham was being backed by Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz (PML-N), Sheikh thought it was the right time to jump into the muddle. Certainly an “open and upfront” soul like him was expected to say some nasty things on the issue. In a recent interview with a local TV channel, the politician dubbed Reham to be worse than the prostitutes who once lived in Lal Haveli (ironically where Sheikh Sahab himself lives today). He was of the view that a pious woman would have some respect even for a man who has been her husband for an hour. Additionally, giving example of the film industry he said, even ‘kanjars’ (transgenders) have some principles and Reham is even worse than them. https://twitter.com/MurtazaViews/status/1009410064715743232 These statements sparked anger over social media and some of the leading actresses of the film industry like Armeena Khan took to Twitter, asking how Sheikh was allowed to use such filth against the film industry and more importantly why was his statement even allowed to be aired on a local TV channel? She also criticised Sheikh for holding the position of Information Minister in the past and considered people like him to be playing the main part in destroying the local film industry. The tittle tattle around this issue has already set the tones of an election campaign that is based on verbal abuses and name-calling. Coming out of a veteran politician’s mouth – who is also a popular public figure – this statement is nothing but an indication of what we are about to witness in the days to come. This has not been the first time that we are hearing such abuses, as Sheikh and other senior politicians have already been playing their respective roles in degrading and defaming female colleagues and insulting females, males and the transgender community in one way or the other. The first female prime minister of Pakistan and a veteran politician, Benazir Bhutto was once subjected to these kinds of abuses and derogatory remarks. The same Sheikh slated Benazir’s government and incited the masses in a public speech to kick her out of Islamabad:

“Jootiya maar ke nikalein ge Islamabad se is ko.” (We will kick her out of Islamabad.)

https://www.dailymotion.com/video/xxmkl6 Benazir was also challenged for being a woman at almost every point. After giving birth to her children in the 90s, she was ridiculed and even her supporters joked that the acronym for Pakistan Peoples Party (PPP) stood for ‘Permanently Pregnant Prime Minister’. Similarly, her opponents criticised her character, the way she dressed and her liberal way of spending her university days (which was completely her personal choice and no one else's). These abuses and the practise of intimidating women is still predominant today. Khawaja Asif, a senior leader of PML-N who served as the defence minister and foreign minister called Pakistan Muslim League-Quad (PML-Q) leader Begum Mehnaz Rafi a ‘penguin’. Similarly, in another incident in 2016, he targeted PTI leader Shireen Mazari and called her a ‘tractor trolley’. Some of the other male Parliamentarians supported him by suggesting that Mazari tried to make her voice more ‘feminine’. This offensive language has also become a general practise not only on the floor of the Parliament and public rallies but also on live TV talk shows – Ijazul Haq targeting Sharmila Farooqi’s family and her character, Abid Sher Ali telling women to stay in their auqat (limits), or a right-wing cleric from Jamiat Ulema-e-Islam-Fazal (JUI-F) insulting Marvi Sirmed on a live talk show. https://www.facebook.com/msirmeda/posts/1233365893363147 But perhaps Sheikh has graduated in using bad language wherever and whenever he sits and talks politics, which has transformed him into a ‘bazari’ leader from an ‘awami’ leader. Criticising his opponent Bilawal Bhutto Zardari, he has frequently taunted his masculinity by calling him ‘billo rani’ and used low sentences like,

“Agey se Pervaiz aur peche se Parveen!” (Pervaiz from the front, Parveen from the back!

https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x28jsed https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x295uuq Sheikh should learn how to respect people and particularly women – whether that be a famous anchor or a prostitute. First of all, in a society like ours, nobody enters prostitution out of free will. As there are a number of societal issues involved in this topic, one should refrain from ridiculing the poor women who are entrapped in it. Then again, respect is mandatory for any woman – whether it be an anchor or a prostitute – because both are earning independently without any support from men like Sheikh. The “man” Sheikh was defending has been, no doubt, an international player of cricket who brought fame and made Pakistan proud by winning the World Cup back in 1992. He is still a reputable man who has struggled hard to become an established politician. I agree he has an enormous number of fan following both within and outside the country. I also agree that he has done some tremendous work by setting up the first cancer hospital in Lahore, spreading it to various other cities, which has benefited not only the people living inside the country, but also a large number of Afghans and people from other neighbouring countries. However, having served as a TV producer with various leading channels, I have witnessed Imran’s on and off flirtatious text messages to female anchors. These anchors chose to stay quiet because of a number of reasons: either they didn’t want to get it reported as they feared they would be blamed for attracting him in the first place or from the distress of being subjected to humiliation and disgrace by their families and society. Whatever the reason was, they chose silence and I fully respect that. However, they did make fun of Imran and his “flirtatious attitude at this age” with their respective teams. Let us now come back to the “man” called Sheikh. I am shocked he is not aware of basic media ethics as he has remained Pakistan’s Federal Minister for Information and Broadcasting from 2002 to 2006. Further upsetting is the fact that we have time and again elected this person to the Parliament without recognising that he has no respect for women at all and certainly no respect for the fact that his private views when aired on TV, in fact, impinge on someone’s basic human rights. How could he even represent the people of Pakistan through a sacred institution like Parliament while having all of this venom in his mind and disrespect in his words? Being open and speaking up is another thing and being big-mouthed and not respecting basic rights of people and marginalising women is another. I am also surprised that our almost defunct Pakistan Electronic Media Regulatory Authority (PEMRA) has not taken any notice of this issue. In today’s world, news spreads like wildfire and his clip of degrading prostitutes and Reham – in fact degrading women as a whole – is all over social media. This is the kind of message and image we are giving to the people outside Pakistan. We talk of peace, sustainability of democracy, transparent elections and making a new Pakistan. Have we forgotten that when a guard kills a bus hostess for declining his proposal, it does not only depict the death of a woman? It is showing the place this society gives to women as a whole – be mine and you are respectful, reject me and you are a prostitute worthy of being dead. It is ironic that public representatives such as Sheikh take pride in degrading and bashing women daily on talk shows without realising that it was a woman who has brought them into this world. Calling a woman a prostitute will not do him any good. It just reveals what sort of a person he himself is! Lastly, it would be horrifying to see a person like him sitting in the Parliament yet again, which unfortunately is very likely.

I remember the last time I met with a close female friend whom I hadn’t seen in a while. I greeted her with a warm smile and complimented her for being in great shape. Instead of accepting my compliment, she responded by saying,

“No, I need to lose some weight.”

I wonder why accepting a genuine compliment is so difficult for women nowadays? Why can’t they just say, “Thank you, so sweet of you”, and reciprocate the compliment? Instead, their usual response is blushing, looking away, losing the ability to articulate their thoughts or shaking their head in disagreement, even where there is a genuine intention behind the compliment. I remember that I have acted similarly myself. It happened when I responded to compliments by saying “not really” or “I don’t think so”. In response, my dear friend suggested that I just take the compliment for what it is. Since then, I have taken such compliments at face value and responded to them affirmatively. I do this because I don’t want to give another person the perception that I do not believe what they are saying. In addition, I want to respond positively about a sentiment being expressed that I should feel positive about rather than denying it, because I think it’s a good opportunity for me to begin a new relationship. For me, it is unquestionably positive when another woman tells me something nice about myself. It’s usually an attempt at female bonding. When women compliment other women about their appearance or choice in attire, the subliminal message is, 'I am not going to hurt you, I want you to know that I like you, and I want to feel a little closer to you'. When we think in that way, it might be a little easier to open up rather than shut the interaction down. Therefore, I do not think that it is wise for women not to accept compliments wholeheartedly. The fact is that many women are rejecting sincerely delivered compliments often times unintentionally. There are all kinds of reasons; women may perceive themselves differently from how others perceive them. They may have an innate sense of humility, a sense of inadequacy, they simply may not want to make waves, or are afraid of attracting jealousy or attention to themselves. Furthermore, I see that popular culture in many societies subliminally expects women to be modest and self-effacing. It means that our society has expectations that women should be careful in terms of how they communicate or respond, being deferential, respectful and polite, so that they can fit in. Unfortunately, this leads to repressed emotions where women can’t get over a gnawing negative feeling and it’s stuck in their mind. As a reaction, they want to compete with, compare, undermine and undercut one another. A close friend of mine once told me that it was difficult to express true feelings or be our own self in front of others because there always was some degree of expectation. In the same vein, if a woman is not smiling, they may get queries like “are you okay” or “what’s wrong”. All of this leads me to conclude that women cannot be honest and authentic about their true feelings or emotions for fear of being judged adversely by others. They are always vying to please and meet expectations. Social psychologists have suggested that women with low self-esteem are more likely to not accept the compliment because it is inconsistent with their concept of self-worth and they find it threatening. On the other hand, women with average or higher self-esteem may tend to reject compliments because they want to be seen as modest and self-effacing. This explains that while women may have made a lot of strides in recent decades, the expectations from women have also increased multi-fold. Unfortunately, this means women downplay their achievements for the sake of their friends’ feelings. Societal expectations for female behaviour traditionally, and enduringly, value modesty and collaboration. More than men, women tend to want to appear relatable. At the end, they are focused on the need to fit into a social universe. I think before it’s too late, women need to change this outdated mindset, which has only impacted their confidence and takes away their power to express who they truly are. Women have to believe that they’re worth it and deserve their success, while maintaining balance and trying not to let societal pressure impact them too much. For me, worrying about what other people think about you is a key indicator that you do not feel whole without the approval of others. It’s an addictive cycle that turns you away from yourself. We should stop being obsessed with whether or not other people like us. Instead, women should be truly content with who they are. Not only should they acknowledge and welcome that self-affirming feeling with open arms and heart, but the most essential point is that they should accept the compliment unconditionally. Compliments are meant to be accepted, not watered-down by fear-infested comebacks. After all, if someone praises our beauty, achievements or effort, we should wholesomely own it because we deserve it. A 2012 study by Japanese researchers suggested that compliments help people to learn and perform new skills. The same researchers equated receiving compliments with receiving cash; both light up the reward system of our brain, the striatum. To conclude, we should feel free to celebrate, be comfortable with, and proud of who we are and what we have accomplished and never succumb to self-doubt when given compliments. A compliment is a gift, and a true gift is offered without strings attached. It starts the conversation. In addition, we should reciprocate others’ kind words and gestures because kindness is in giving and that is what we should do in our life.

What is the duty of a good brown woman? For most of our society, it’s ‘upholding traditional values’ – whether it’s the ideal bahu (daughter-in-law) in most TV dramas, desirable conservatism in Bollywood dynamics, or unsolicited advice from politicians. A 2017 Ipsos Global Trends report even reveals that 64% of Indians believe that a woman’s primary role is to be ‘a good mother and wife’. This burden of sanskar (values) and dutifulness then become a tool of oppression, of restriction. On the other hand, men have no such shackles, and end up having a monopoly on the social acceptability of ‘having fun’. There is a systematic curbing of women’s freedom to experience different pleasurable things, from most affordable local bars and wine shops being male-dominated spaces, to mobility being disallowed and/or unsafe for many women, to sex being portrayed as a solely male desire. These restrictions are disguised under the claim that it is against India’s moral fibre and traditional customs of ‘dutifulness’. And this includes smoking. ‘Women should have the right to smoke’ Many might find this a weird feminist stance.

“Are you really fighting for the right to harm one’s body?”

The answer to that is, not at all, no feminist movement aims to damage lungs. The struggle is about the right to choose for your own body, irrespective of what that choice may be. Smoking kills, this we know. But for several women in urban India, not smoking isn’t always an informed, health-conscious choice. Often it’s not a choice at all, it’s a social construct. And for many who do choose to smoke, it’s a struggle or a secret you’re forced to keep. From judgmental gynaecologists to the norm that reproduction is the tax every woman must pay for being born, for centuries societal pressure has been waging a war on a woman’s right to decide for her own body – and smoking isn’t any different. Whether it’s the closing scene in Alankrita Shrivastava’s Lipstick Under my Burkha or Lisa Haydon’s portrayal of a ‘free, liberated women’ in Queen, even Bollywood speaks of the emancipatory notion of the choice to smoke. Health and policy drivers A report by the Associated Chambers of Commerce and Industry of India (ASSOCHAM) in March 2018 revealed that there is a growing trend amongst young working women smoking in urban cities of India. A similar study by the National Center for Biotechnology Information (NCBI) concluded that their findings “clearly provide a basis to institute gender-based tobacco control policies to stop the rise in women’s smoking rates”. This study called for a specific gender-based policy that was not meant to curb rising smoking rates, but rising women’s smoking rates. Most reports that speak to the consequences of women smoking have two narratives. One, that it is a grave public health concern since women smoking can affect the well-being of their families. While this is true due to the harmful effects of second-hand smoke, the same is not said of men smoking in such reports. This could be attributed to the fact that a woman’s actions are seen through the lens of family, since they are bearers of children and their primary loyalty belongs to the household, while men don’t have the same consequences. The second narrative points to the risk of adverse pregnancy outcomes, appealing to the motherhood role of women that should outweigh their choice to smoke. However, health hazards of smoking on men’s sperm count and motility, while a scientific fact, isn’t portrayed as strongly. While these readings of such reports could be chalked off as subjective, the urban space divide is less dismissible. Urban spaces In most urban spaces, cigarette stalls or panwallahs (betel leaf sellers) are most often male-dominated spaces, from the owner to the shopkeeper to the patrons. The physical occupation of a majority of men in these spaces, which is often accompanied by a straight, cis male gaze, makes it difficult for anyone else to comfortably occupy the same physical space with ease. This is true for gay men, transgender people, women, and other such minority groups. I personally have been in countless situations of glaring male gaze fixated on me purely owing to the cigarette in my hand, which often also escalates to threatening and harassing comments. This isn’t just an invasion of privacy; it’s terrifying when you’re made to feel vulnerable for a choice you’ve made. This fear is not unfounded, demonstrated by several cases of harassment against women caused by men not approving of a woman smoking. For instance, in 2016, a female student in Kolkata was allegedly assaulted by a group of six men for ‘wearing shorts and smoking a cigarette’. Another eerily similar case with another 23-year-old female student took place in May of 2018. From men on scooter slowing down past a girl smoking to long-drawn, threatening stares, to people even walking up to women with comments like,

“Ladkiyon ko cigarette nahi peena chahiye, suit nahi karta.” (Girls shouldn’t smoke, it does not suit them.)

Or my personal favourite,

“Cigarette ko muh mein leti hai toh sab kuch leti hogi!” (If she can put a cigarette in her mouth, then she must be willing to put everything else in her mouth also!)

Urban spaces in India are built to keep women from the choice to smoke. A common classist and caste-ist worldview can conclude that men from low-income backgrounds are the perpetrators of such judgment, but that would be a fallacy. The comments, stares and headshakes of disapproval are brought on just as much by savarna, privileged men who deem themselves the guardians of Indian sanskar. Not to mention other women reinforcing this patriarchal notion, clicking their tongues at such abhorrent behaviour as well. Torches of freedom and commercial gain The tone of this article’s narrative suggests that women should have the right to choose for their own bodies when it comes to smoking, but this narrative isn’t new. It has long been a tool for big tobacco businesses to widen their consumer bases. In the 19^thcentury, big tobacco companies focused their advertising on their consumer base of men. The social stigma around women smoking made their share in the consumer market negligible, and the habit was often attributed to sex workers or women who society considered ‘immoral’. However, George Washington Hill, the President of the American Tobacco Company, saw women as an untapped market opportunity to maximise profit. In 1929, the company organised a parade of women marching down New York City’s Fifth Avenue holding lit cigarettes that were coined ‘torches of freedom’. This location wasn’t a random choice, and was remnant of the 1915 Suffrage Parade march where tens of thousands of women marched across Fifth Avenue for the right to vote. The similarity drawn between these two marches posed smoking as ‘liberation’ and ‘emancipation’ for women, and the tobacco market grew.

Big tobacco company Philip Morris also rode the wave of feminism to the bank in 1968 with its marketing slogan ‘you’ve come a long way, baby’ for Virginia Slims. This represents a long trend of ‘feminisation of cigarettes’ with product variants that were extra slim, low-tar, low-smell, menthol and so on. And this trend of big tobacco companies using women’s liberation as a marketing tagline isn’t a solely American phenomenon.

For decades, several Indian tobacco companies introduced women in cigarette advertisements in order to capture that same untapped market. Before the bill outlawing cigarette product advertising was implemented, in April of 2003, Golden Tobacco Company’s new line of platinum cigarettes was launched specifically for women with an insert in the Mid Day titled ‘Understanding Women’. ITC Limited, India’s leader in tobacco, identified women as a market and began to run print advertisements for Gold Flake Filter Kings, which picturised a group of both men and women. Not to mention the famous Wills’ ‘Made for Each Other’ campaign advertising Navy Cut cigarettes with the faces of a happy couple.

The trend of curbing a woman’s freedom exists across India in many colours and shapes, this is a fact. While the act of smoking itself is not a liberator or emancipator for women, despite what big tobacco would have us believe, the freedom of choice to smoke or not to smoke, is. All photos: Pinterest This article was originally published on Feminism in India and re-published here with their permission.

I began writing this in the morning after the 2018 Pakistani General Elections. This was my third time voting in an election, and my first time voting in Pakistan. On Election Day, I was moved. The morning after, I felt uneasy. I woke up to the headlines heralding Imran Khan as the prime minister of Pakistan amidst strong allegations of rigging. Not feeling particularly loyal to any party, and knowing with a level of certainty that the candidates I had voted for would not win – and they did not – I wasn’t keen on staying up all night biting my nails and watching newscasters get unnecessarily excited over limited information about the results. I figured I’d find out in the morning. On Election Day, I thought I witnessed democracy in progress, and I was swept away by the beauty of it. From wealthy businessmen to working class labourers, all stood in the same line awaiting their turn to vote – the nation was uniting, with each citizen having an equal say. A bride walked into the polling station in her wedding dress, elderly in wheelchairs, members of the transgender community going together, long lines of women, and celebrities and politicians showing off their inked thumbs on social media. In a country with such extreme inequality, it can be uplifting to witness a process this unifying. However, as I waited in line to cast my vote, the ease of with which I could brandish my identification card and stand at the polling booth felt heavy. A few months ago, while visiting Machar Colony, I met with members of the Bengali community whose families have lived there for generations but are unable to vote because of lack of identification cards issued. Shaikh Muhammad Siraj, a community activist told me:

“We want to work for this country, for its betterment. We want to vote for a good leader for the country who will do good work for the public and be useful to the nation. But we aren’t able to do so.”

An estimated 1.2 million Bengali Pakistanis were unable to vote in this election. While the Election Commission of Pakistan (ECP) has done much to get women registered to vote, having registered 3.8 million women to electoral rolls in the past months, millions more across the country remain unregistered. The Ahmadi community too remains excluded from the electoral process, forced to choose between their religious beliefs and their right to vote. In Quetta, 31 voters were murdered as they attempted to exercise their right to vote. And here I was, having spent the majority of my life outside of Pakistan, casually strolling into a local polling booth. I slipped my ballots into their respective boxes, uncomfortable with how much privilege existed in this seemingly simple action. It was an emotional experience to feel included in the electoral process of my birth country, and tempting to think that democracy could be this simple. The first time I voted was in the Canadian Federal Elections to vote out former Prime Minister Stephen Harper, which we successfully managed to do through strategic voting. The second time I voted was in the British Columbia (BC) provincial elections to vote out Christy Clark and bring in the New Democratic Party (NDP). Each time I voted, it was for change, for someone new, out of frustration of the status quo. When I spoke with Donald Trump supporters south of the border, I was told that they too wanted change. He is different, they would say. No matter the policies, to them, change was a virtue in of itself. Hilary Clinton seemed like she’d be more of the same. Barack Obama won in 2008 under the campaign slogan “change”. The desire for change among Pakistanis is similar. Imran, eager to finally become prime minister, capitalised on this common desire, and he too promised change in the form of a naya Pakistan. As I listened to his speech to the nation, I desperately wanted to believe him. I recognise this tendency in me, to want to focus on the positive, to hope for a desirable outcome despite all the evidence suggesting otherwise. It exists in many of us. Being critical often calls for an energy that doesn’t always feel sustainable when you’re constantly surrounded by things that demand active critical deconstruction. When you’re surrounded by cynics who have good reason to be cynical, and when there are so many things going wrong and opportunities to celebrate seem rare. Today, I ask myself: how can one remain hopeful without closing one’s eyes? Can we not admire the long lines winding outside polling stations, but also refuse to forget or abandon the millions excluded from the process? Can we really call this election fair? Who are we betraying when we make this claim? I asked a Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf (PTI) supporter why he was voting for PTI, and he responded,

“Because Imran Khan’s different; he’s new and I want a change. Who else would I support otherwise?”

The youth supporting Imran really do want a naya Pakistan. They are tired of the same old. They want to hold on this new, shimmering idea of change, of the possibilities that one can conjure with the adjective “new”. There is so much for the imagination in this singular word. When I imagine what 'naya' could mean, I imagine clean streets, strong and open governance, viable public transport, water equality, accountable leadership, better hospitals, schools, universities, fair elections, and social welfare. I imagine strolling along pristine, peaceful, tree-lined streets of Karachi at night, feeling safe. I imagine Karachi afternoons where every child is in a classroom rather than working on the streets. I can understand the desire to close one’s eyes to all the facts that indicate this is not going to be a new Pakistan. If not much worse, it will be the same old. It is difficult to let go of hope when it feels so rare. And while Justin Trudeau is a different prime minister from Stephen Harper, so many of his promises remain broken. He promised electoral reform, which never happened. He promised to work to protect the environment and work with indigenous communities, a promise he broke with his approval of major pipeline projects. The BC NDP, while fulfilling some promises, broke others. After each election that I’ve voted in, I have seen how some things improved, many that I hoped would, didn’t. Change can be slow, can be a mirage, can be a betrayal, it can even be worthwhile. It cannot guarantee progress; it is simply a turn. New does not automatically mean better. The election of Trump in the United States brought some of the biggest changes to the country as his voters had hoped, but those changes were often for the worse, as has been the case in many countries around the world that are seeing a rise in authoritarianism and fascism in their attempts to change the status quo. Perhaps it was this sense of false hope and the lack of caution on the part of so many around me, which made me feel uneasy the morning after election. Things don’t change so easily, and not all change is for the better. Let us go into this “new” Pakistan with our eyes fully wide open. Let us find things to celebrate, but let us not delude ourselves.

In June, Imran Khan, leader of Pakistan-Tehreek-e-Insaf (PTI) and now set to be the country’s future prime minister, made a few uninformed statements on feminism. He said,

“I disagree with the western concepts of feminism. It has completely degraded the role of a mother.”

The internet responded to this and set the record straight. The theory and practice of feminism, which is certainly not always western, has led to maternity benefits for working mothers and has elevated motherhood in that regard. But Imran has previously opined on topics that stray from his area of expertise. His views on feminism do not necessarily determine the nature of PTI’s work in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (K-P) to promote women’s rights. However, facts do. Unfortunately, though, they have not delivered. K-P has yet to enact a law against domestic violence to protect women. Other provinces have enacted such laws for the protection of women – Sindh in 2013, Balochistan in 2014, and Punjab in 2016 (despite PTI leaders’ opposition to it). The momentum for women’s rights legislation was strong in the last decade and activists were able to table and push multiple laws to end gender-based violence and discrimination. In K-P, PTI acquiesced to the religious right-wingers who publicly claim such laws are a sign of western liberalism, which is in-line with Imran’s poor view of feminism. In 2016, the Council of Islamic Ideology (CII) rejected a version of the K-P domestic violence bill; its chief publicly condoned light beating of a wife by her husband. In a climate where dialogue around protecting women from violence at home had already dealt a blow, in 2017, law-makers presented a compromised domestic violence bill, but that too failed to pass. Progress to protect women against sexual harassment at the workplace was slow in K-P. In 2012, Sindh became the first province to appoint a provincial ombudsperson mandated by the Federal statute – the Protection against Harassment of Women at the Workplace 2010. Yet, eight long years since the passage of the act, K-P has yet to appoint one. This is a legally qualified person who decides all appeals in sexual harassment cases and provides judicial-like oversight to potentially diverse and often irregular sexual harassment complaint processes conducted at schools, companies and other organisations. Under the Federal Act, such person, essential for the Act’s implementation, can be anyone qualified to be a High Court judge or with 20 years of experience in civil service, or an eminent educationist. In 2018, K-P amended the 2010 federal law; the change reduces the requirement to 15 years of experience in the civil service to be qualified as ombudsperson. If it was the definition that had stalled the appointment of an ombudsperson, the amended definition is not very different from the original. Maliha Husain, a prime advocate of the law and behind its implementation success, is hopeful that the new government will be quick to appoint one. Laws are important to recognise the menace of violence against women and girls. They pave the way for rights to not just be articulated, but also normalised; appointment of personnel and budgeting for the laws to be operational is important for these rights to be developed, mainstreamed and strengthened. One may critique the work of the Sindh sexual harassment ombudsman, but this critique is only possible because one was appointed – and we now have a substantial data on how the law was interpreted and how the state handled such complaints. With K-P, we start on a blank slate on sexual harassment, lying on the negative axis of domestic violence. However, a party cannot survive without women – in parliament or in the party echelons. On the parliamentary front, MPA Meraj Humayun (now with PTI) said,

“PTI-led government made measures to support and promote female parliamentarians but that they failed to create a conducive environment for women in the assembly and the secretariat.”

She said the government gave K-P a “solid women’s empowerment policy” but she also points out that,

“Seven bills drafted by the Women’s Parliamentary Caucus including those covering domestic violence, trafficking, home-based workers were not placed on the agenda despite repeated requests.”

A final draft of the empowerment policy does not seem to be available online. Compare this to the Punjab policy which was made readily available online and paved the way for women’ rights NGOS to voice and demand the benefits promised under it. Shad Begum, known for her work of empowering women of K-P towards political participation, says that PTI has done little for women at the grassroots, but they have engaged women at the party level. There was a very low allocation for women in the annual budget. This is unfortunate in a climate where rural (and urban) women are on the brink of poverty and need attention paid to their livelihoods, economic opportunities and resources. Even appointing women police officers has been a slow and stagnant work-in-progress. While PTI in K-P has had a feeble track record in protecting women against violence at home and the workplace – other laws also have an impact on women’s rights. Laws and schemes protecting health (such as the sehat sahulat card), education, child labour and forest rights, also impact women. Policies on crime and terrorism, madrassa reforms and funding also set the stage for promoting or crossing out women’s rights. The province of K-P has a strong tradition of grassroots activists who use systems and push laws, whether to enable labour benefits such as EOBI, push for district level women’s commissions, or implement changes in health policy. It is these ordinary people of K-P, one hopes, who will continue to push for real change, rather than accepting technocratic, diluted, or cosmetic changes from above. In 2013, I became familiar with the Forest Act of 2002 that envisions a role for forest community women in joint forest conservation and management. At the time, members of the forest community in Swat were asking for its implementation – which was weak – including forming committees and giving royalties. They questioned how extant laws can be put in the bin of history and new mechanisms such as the United Nations Programme on Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Forest Degradation (UN REDD) can be adopted. The billion-street tsunami and its Rs12 billion budget, part of UN REDD, was such a venture. Shiny, exciting, and great for marketing, but indicative of a tendency to start from scratch and undo years worth of work on forest rights (and indirectly women’s rights). This makes poor case for governance, but no one will deny extra trees are a bonus. Building new schemes while relegating past work to oblivion sets us back; not making laws and systems work in key areas of gender-based violence sets us back. In K-P, PTI has to set matters right. Create an environment where anti-domestic violence legislation can be unchallenged by the right-wing and then enact a strong version of the bill. Appoint an ombudsperson to handle sexual harassment cases and put more women in the police force at all positions with powers to file FIRS. Empower all the bodies, commissions and departments needed to do the work of implementation. Allow female politicians to push a vibrant gender mandate, and the party itself will transform. But if it continues to sabotage or micro-manage them, then it will be much of the same K-P – lethargic and tardy on women’s rights.

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