We, the women

Although Pakistan’s Aurat March has always come under attack from the country’s conservative and religious right, this year has been particularly vicious.

The charges are of blasphemy, a crime punishable by death. These charges weaponised disinformation on social media, with mainstream journalists demanding that the march organizers be punished. Religious mobs came out in Islamabad threatening vigilante justice, and pressuring the police to register a blasphemy case. The National Assembly Standing Committee on Religious Affairs declared the Aurat March sacrilegious, and asked for the establishment of government bodies to prevent “unIslamic writings”.

One wonders if the country could possibly be more distracted and apathetic to the real issue at hand – that Pakistan has a grave, deep-rooted and long-standing problem with how it views and treats its women. For 15 years now, it has ranked among the most dangerous and most unequal places in the world to be a woman.

Islam is not in danger in Pakistan; women are. All women have to weather harassment, abuse, fear and panic to survive here. All of them feel the curse of their gender in a culture that assigns little value to their dignity and humanity. Our experiences cover the entire spectrum: from ogling, lewd comments, catcalling, groping, being followed and other predatory behavior – all the way to being beaten, assaulted, raped, stabbed, or killed. A majority choose to stay silent about their most traumatic experiences. Most continue to be denied their right to education, financial opportunities, healthcare, mobility, and daily life choices.

But wait – we are told offence is being taken to the manner in which Aurat March organizes itself, not to its demand for rights.

“Ask for your rights, but not like this”, they say. “These slogans are immoral”, they chastise. “These elites should talk about real issues faced by women”, they advise. The men doling out this advice want to tell women what rights to ask for, as well as the manner in which to ask for them – down to the words, tone, volume and body language. And so it is, that in a culture already stifling for women, their protests are met with attempts to further censor, control and police them.

Let us consider for a moment that protest as a form of resistance is almost always the result being denied justice by legal or democratic means. It is often a final recourse for the aggrieved. As feminist scholar Afiya Shehrbano Zia put in a 2019 op-ed: “What is a protest march? A protest is an objection to injustice and a march is a demonstration of collective dissent. It is not a gentle, cautious stroll, polite drawing room chatter, or a study circle.”

More importantly, though, this is a case of pointing the finger at the oppressed instead of the oppressor. Yet again, as women dial up the heat to jolt the country out of its denial, the national discourse swings right back to women’s behaviour and choices, instead of the systems, and often, the men, whose conduct has landed us here in the first place. We tell women to ask for their rights more politely instead of questioning the denial and deflection that has necessitated bolder forms of dissent.

Four years on, we are still interrogating women about ‘Mera jism, meri marzi’ instead of dismantling the culture that has created and protected misogynists, harassers, and rapists with such alarming consistency in the country. We remain horrified by the ‘lehja’ of women’s slogans instead of the audacity of religious mobs calling for murder, or the clergy’s track record of child sexual abuse. Misplaced and misused religiosity has become the patriarchy’s biggest weapon in Pakistan.

Amidst this distraction caused by blood-thirsty mobs and guardians of our culture, there is little interest in understanding why thousands of aggrieved women have been taking to the streets for four years now. “What rights do you want?” is a rhetorical question, a mocking jab thrown at women, particularly if they belong to some level of socioeconomic privilege.

Perhaps we react this way because violence, misogyny and rape don’t shock us as much as seeing women marching and chanting on the streets. Perhaps it is because reining in the joy and anger of women is much more familiar to us than questioning male violence, entitlement and impunity. Perhaps it is because blaming, belittling, ignoring, silencing and mocking women feels as ordinary to us as the air we breathe. It is, after all, what we see politicians, media anchors and the men in our families do on a daily basis.

For those interested in the movement’s objectives, the Aurat March published a 32-page charter of demands. This year’s theme was women’s health. This charter condensed several months of outreach and research with communities, lady health workers and medical practitioners. A press conference was organized in advance of the march. The press did show up, but barely anyone had looked at the charter and practically no one cared to ask questions about it. Media personnel at the march were eager to find new placards for sensational footage, often harassing participants with comments about vulgarity and lecturing them about the teachings of Islam.

Violence against women continues to be a theme highlighted at the march – this year in the form of a street art installation that shared the stories of women and girls on ripped kurtas, with ages of survivors on one side, and the relation of the abuser on the other. Most read “father”, “brother”, “uncle”, “cousin”, “teacher”. The ages of survivors ranged from 3 to 50+. The installation and its attempt to shine a light on gender-based violence barely made it to mainstream media.

The oft-repeated claim that the movement represents an elite sentiment, removed from the actual struggle of Pakistani women, could not be further from the truth. Aurat March is in fact Pakistan’s first intersectional, grassroots movement for all oppressed bodies – from women of every class and education level, to the transgender community, to Baloch, Pashtun and other ethnic groups, to discriminated religious minorities. This year, the movement spread to smaller cities like Multan and Hyderabad. Very little of this diversity and inclusion is visible in press coverage of the march.

For all the fury about the movement not being about ‘actual’ issues, it is precisely when we have gotten to the heart of the matter that the backlash has reached explosive proportions. And the heart of the matter rests not as much in our public lives as in our private – inside homes, kitchens and bedrooms. It is as we ask for bodily autonomy, reproductive rights, sexual rights and domestic rights that the cries of blasphemy ring louder. But we know that we cannot be free outside our homes unless we are free inside our homes.

Not only do the women of the Aurat March deserve freedom from harassment and threats, they deserve our appreciation and applause. They continue to expend time, energy, their own money, and risk their lives to build a space where Pakistani women can dream of a future where they are equal citizens and humans.

It is only when we actively support those organizing for a more gender-balanced society that we will turn the chapter on a truly naya Pakistan.

The writer is a computer scientist and entrepreneur, whose work in technology spans e-commerce, healthcare and social justice initiatives.

Twitter: @sabagl