2007 Ethics in Action
Manifold forms of culture-based unkindness and cruelty
Women and girls
I am a girl . . .
(Poem by a girl child, part of the Pakistan Girl Child Project)
Perhaps he does, but he doesn’t express it.
My brother is younger than me,
But, because he is a boy,
He is the apple of my father’s eye.
“My son, my son, my son!” is all he has to say.
Every word of my brother is like the order of a king.
He is my father’s identity, my father’s future.
It is my brother’s doll’s wedding tomorrow.
But my doll is still at home, alone and friendless.
No matter if he makes fun of me,
No matter if he raises his hand at me,
No matter if he breaks something.
My father immediately scolds me:
“You are 17 and still so useless!!
Perhaps you may get some sense when you are an old woman!”
She is a daughter, a shadow who is with us for a fleeting time only.”
My mother says that when I go to sleep at night,
And wander carelessly in the wonderful world of dreams,
My father comes and fondles my head
Smiling softly to himself.
To see and feel my father’s love.
Women
Federico Mayor
You brought with you
A new song.
But we did not let you
Speak out
Although yours
Is the voice of half the earth.
Your eyes
Saw the world
Another way.
But we did not want
To know the meaning
And warmth
Of your vision.
You carried under your skin
Of all colors
The seed
Of the future,
The light
Which could illuminate
Different paths
Rebellious
Yet peaceful ways,
Woman-bridge
Woman-bond
Woman-root
And fruit of love
And tenderness.
Your hands outstretched
And your open arms
Enfold the immensity
Of refuge
And of comfort.
But we have not understood
The strength of your embrace
Nor the cry of your silence
And we carry on
With neither compass
Nor relief.
With no other master
But yourself,
Live from now on
Equal and free,
Now as companion
Sharing
The same dream FOREVER.
If only our Prophets were Women
Cecil Rajendra
(For Zainah Anwar & SIS)
the History of our World
would have been so very different.
Muhammad, Jesus —
good men, all of them
who preached Peace
Love & Universal Brotherhood.
But MEN, nonetheless
(Message of Love, aside)
men who boldly flaunted
a strong feminine side
in choice of kaftan & coiffure...
Not by chance opting in favour
of soft sandals over jackboots;
billowing ankle-length dresses over armour suits & khaki shorts;
our prophets’ entire experience
of the Milk of Human Goodness
was culled wholly from infancy;
unlike their mothers & sisters
none of them suckled a baby;
all, ALL were Takers not Givers.
— men, for the most part—
who chose to ignore the soft
warm message of the heart
& focus more on the hard
macho precepts of their Masters.
to spread the Word of God;
preferring summary execution
(of enemy, infidel & Saracen)
to gentle persuasion
& the art of subtle seduction.
consider how the history/herstory
of war would have been written
Instead of being fought
years on end in trenches,
the First World War
would have been slugged
to a standstill in minutes
between a broad Scottish lass
& a buxom Bavarian fraulein
in a mud-wrestling rink
somewhere on the Maginot Line.
would we ever have found
a woman willing to dump
that atom bomb on Hiroshima?
And not only because of their
legendary fear of flying,
but can anyone sane imagine
any lady, dropping from height,
A-Baby nicknamed ‘Little Boy’?
the Crusades to Masquerades
(complete with funny hats
silver-masks & sequins);
the Seven Years’ War
into a seven-year-itch.
The Battle of the Bulge
into a Baffle of Boobs
& resolved the War of Roses
....with roses!
even for a single second:
Mary Magdalene hoisting a rifle?
Ibu Fatimah with an AK-47?
or, Mother Theresa with a bazooka?
the Herstory of our World
would have been so different
for starters, we would have been
bequeathed Universal Motherhood
not bloody Brotherhood or Martyrhood.
The Cut
Maryam Sheikh Abdi
when they led me to the bush, to my slaughterhouse.
Too young to know what it all entailed,
I walked lazily towards the waiting women.
as pain was my destiny:
it is the burden of femininity,
so I was told.
Still, I was scared to death . . .
but I was not to raise an alarm.
each trying to do her tasks the best.
There was the torso holder
she had to be strong to hold you down.
Legs and hands each had their own woman,
who needed to know her task
lest you free yourself and flee for life.
and on went the list.
Known to be timid, I was the last among the six.
I shivered and shook all over;
butterflies beat madly in my stomach.
I wanted to vomit, the waiting was long,
the expectation of pain too sharp,
but I had to wait my turn.
My heart pounded, my ears blocked;
the only sound I understood
was the wails from the girls,
for that was my destiny as well.
winked at me:
Come here, girl, she said, smiling unkindly.
You won’t be the first nor the last,
but you have only this once to prove you are brave!
She stripped me naked. I got goose pimples.
A cold wind blew, and it sent warning signs
all over me. I choked, and my head
went round in circles as I was led.
who would hold my upper abdomen,
and each of the other four women grasped my legs and hands.
I was stretched apart and each limb firmly held.
And under the shade of a tree . . .
The cutter begun her work . . .
the pain . . . is so vivid to this day,
decades after it was done.
God, it was awful!
My voice grew hoarse, and the cries could not come out,
I wriggled as the excruciating pain ate into my tender flesh.
Hold her down! cried the cursed cutter,
and the biggest female jumbo sat on my chest.
I could not breathe, but there was nobody
to listen to me.
Then my cries died down, and everything was dark.
As I drifted, I could hear the women laughing,
joking at my cowardice
to the most horrendous reality.
The agonizing pain was unbearable!
It was eating into me, every inch of my girlish body was aching.
The women kept exchanging glances
and talked loudly of how I would go down in history,
to be such a coward, until I fainted in the process.
Allahu Akbar! they exclaimed as they criticized me.
Don’t look, you coward, came the cutter’s words;
then she ordered the women to pour hot sand on my cut genitals.
My precious blood gushed out and foamed.
Open up, snarled the jumbo woman, as she poured the sand on me.
Nothing they did eased the pain.
I was shaking and biting my lower lip.
I kept moving front, back, and sideways as I writhed in pain.
This one will just shame me! cried the cutter.
Look how far she has moved, how will she heal?
My sister was embarrassed, but I could see pain in her eyes . . .
maybe she was recalling her own ordeal.
She pulled me back quickly to the shed.
were moving in circles and perching on nearby trees.
Ish ish, the women shooed the birds.
All this time the pain kept coming in waves,
each wave more pronounced than the one before it.
They scrubbed the bloody sand off our thighs and small buttocks,
then sat us back down.
A hole was dug,
malmal, the stick herb, was pounded;
The ropes for tying our legs were ready.
Charcoal was brought and put in the hole,
where there was dried donkey waste and many herbs—these were the cutter’s paraphernalia.
and we were ordered to sit on the hole.
As I sat with smoke rising around me,
I could hear the blood dropping on the charcoal,
and more smoke rose.
The pain was somehow dwindling but I felt weak
and nauseated.
Maybe she is losing blood? my sister asked worriedly.
No, no. It will stop once I place the herbs, cried the cutter impatiently.
and then I was tied from my thighs to my toes
with very strong ropes from camel hide.
A long stick was brought and the women took turns
showing us how to walk, sit, and stand.
They told us not to bend or move apart our legs?
This will make you heal faster, they said,
but it was meant to seal up that place.
more burning than the aftermath of the razor,
passed slowly, bit by bit,
one drop after another,
while lying on my side.
There was no washing, no drying,
and the burning kept on for hours later.
But there was no stool . . .
at least, I don’t remember.
There was no feeding on anything with oil,
or anything with vegetables or meat.
Only milk and ugali formed my daily ration.
I was given only sips of water:
This avoids “wetting” the wound and delaying healing, they said.
The journey from the bush back home began around four and ended sometimes at seven.
All this time we had to face the heat
and bare-footedly slide towards home . . .
with no water, of course.
We were not to bend if a thorn stuck us,
never to call for help loudly
as this would “open” us up and the cutter
would be called again.
Everything was about scary dos and don’ts.
for the next four weeks. None of us bathed;
lice developed between the ropes and our skin,
biting and itching the whole day and night.
There was no way to remove them,
at least not until we healed.
Every morning the breeze carried the sweet scent of its waters to us,
making our thirst more real.
each of us shivered and prayed silently,
each hoping we had healed and there would be no cutting again.
Thank God we were all done
except one unlucky girl
who had to undergo it all again,
and took months to heal.
The ropes untied, lice dropped at last.
We were showered and oiled,
but most important was the drinking of water.
I drank until my stomach was full,
but the mouth and throat yearned for more.
All over my thighs were marks from the ropes,
dotted with patches from the lice wounds.
Now I was to look after myself,
to ensure that everything remained intact
until the day I married.
Abandoned Woman
SipakV
No, but he is the one who left
Wouldn’t he leave
You are an abandoned woman
Shaming us
Shaming our family
Look at your hair
Look at your face
Look at your cooking
Look at your unkept house
What man would stay?
I did my best
I cut my hair, straightened it
I put perfumed cream on my face
I tried my best cooking every day
I straightened the house
But Ikoto and Ikala
Wanted love and care
He did not even notice
He came home late every night
Drunk on women and alcohol
Dumb with rage
Because our life sucks
Our kids misbehave
His wife is ugly
And he wants to beat up his loss
Erase it on my face and body
Erase it every night with no luck
Last time the neighborhood committee came
And gave me advice
You are a woman
Resign yourself
Tough it out until the end
When the sky comes crashing down on you
And the Reverend Father came by
Remember Victoire Rasoamanarivo he said
But I am not looking for happiness in the next world
But peace for Ikoto and Ikala is what I seek
You came today mother and said
He is my lot
Violence my destiny
Prison my fate
Because where am I to go
Jobless woman
So mother let me
Look at your hair
Look at your face
Look at your cooking
Look at your unkempt house
What man would stay?
The stone & the woman
Dr Carole R Fontaine
*In the Islamic Republic of Iran, stones used for public executions must be neither too large, nor too small; proper stoning requires that the stone must be just the right size in order to cause serious pain and injury without killing the victim too rapidly.
Twisted ballerina
Jayne Sachs
Little twisted ballerina
Little steps
Little twisted ballerina pirouettes
across the floor
to the window where her
daddy watches from the corner of his eye
and her uncle watches her thighs
Little girl
Little twisted ballerina
Dance
Well her mom’s at work down at the hospital today
and her daddy decides to cash his paycheck today
and her uncle says “Sure, I’ll watch your ballerina... dance.”
Well she’s heard those words before
She’s seen that look before
She’s smelled his breath before
She’s felt his weight on her before
This ballerina
And when her daddy leaves
and when they’re alone he’s says
“I just bought a ticket to your show.”
Little girl
Little twisted ballerina
Dance
Dance dance dance dance
Got to dance got to dance got to dance got to dance got to dance got to dance
Dance
And she dances out the bedroom
And she dances down the hall
And she dances down the steps
And out the front door
And she goes up to the clouds
that’s where she find her stage
And she does the dance that’s twice her age
How did he get here?
Who let him in up here?
Who let him in down there?
I was dancing here
I was dancing here
Little girl
Little twisted ballerina
Little steps
Little twisted ballerina pirouettes
Little twisted ballerina pirouettes
Genocide of women in Hinduism
Sita Agarwal
“In memory of my late sister, who died as a result of the inherently anti-woman religion of barbarian Hinduism.”
Introduction
I dedicate this book to my late younger sister, who was murdered as a result of a dowry-related incident while in full blossom of youth. Like most sisters, we were very close to one another, and her early death had a deep impact on me. This tragedy inspired me with the will to join the Indian feminist movement, and to eventually write this book. I hope that this work may save the lives of some of my Indian sisters and help reduce the suffering of Indian womankind. The reason for writing this book is purely humanitarian, so I have made this book available in the public domain. The more widely this book is read, the more innocent lives shall be saved. Please distribute it freely, and help save Indian women. Thank you in advance for your efforts.
After my sister’s death, I joined the Indian feminist movement. I read the usual feminist literature, took part in the usual demonstrations in support of women’s rights, and attended the usual women’s rights conventions. However, it soon dawned on me that the movement was quite hollow, and, despite several decades of existence, had failed miserably in its objectives. At the time I write this book, in June 1999, the status of women in India has sunk to its lowest ebb. After 50 years of Independence, cases of female infanticide, sati, dowry-related murders and crimes against women are on the increase, and in many cases are at their highest levels seen since the birth of the Indian Republic. I soon realized that the reason is that Indian feminism has not tackled the core of the evil, but has only squabbled about superficial aspects of the problem. Western feminism was merely transplanted onto the subcontinent, and like many plants, had been unable to thrive in its new environment. It is only by tackling the root of the problem that this plant can grow. I hope that this book shall enlighten all Indian women as to the true reasons for the abject state of subjugation we are in.
Real reason for oppression of Indian women
Everyone has heard the Brahmin male propaganda that the customs of sati, dowry, female infanticide and all other social suppression of women in India is the result of `social degeneration’, ‘corruption’, or still worse, `foreign Christian or Muslim influence’. This is all one big lie designed to fool women. The reasons are far more deep-rooted, and are fully the result of Brahmin male conspiracies.
The real reason for the sad state of Indian women is the continuation of the Vedic and Vaishnava religions, collectively referred to as Brahminism or `astika’ Hinduism. These religions clearly and unambiguously justify and prescribe the crushing of women to the status of sub-humans. Rather than being due to some kind of `corruption’, the ghastly practices of sati, female infanticide, dowry and related acts are actually enforced by Vedic and Hindu scriptures. Although this may sound like some Christian or Muslim propaganda, it is not. I have backed up my research with quotations from Vedic and Vaishnava scriptures, and have shown that these religions, and nothing else, are the main culprits behind the most anti-woman system the world has ever seen. Far from being `enlightened’ and `progressive’, Brahmanism is in fact the very fountain of the evils of sati, female infanticide, devadasism and dowry.
Future of the women’s movement
The result of my research is far-reaching. Instead of wasting time attacking trivialities, the Hindu religion itself must be attacked by Indian feminism. If Indian women are to become free, it is this faith that must tackled, and nothing else. No other religion, not even Islam or Christianity, burns its women, or slaughters one-tenth of all women each generation except Hinduism. Indeed, Brahminism is nothing but the legitimized genocide of women. In this book I have performed calculations showing how Brahminist men, and not Communists or Nazis, have been responsible for the greatest genocide (namely that of women) in the history of the world. The worst holocaust in human history was not that of the Jews or Africans, but was that inflicted on women by Brahmins. A significant part of this holocaust occurred in India during thousands of years of Brahmanic tyranny. Even in the modern era, Brahmin-enforced laws lead to the deaths of more people each decade than Hitler killed during the entire Second World War. To stop this ongoing holocaust, Indian women must unite with all those who oppose Hinduism, for an enemy’s enemy is a friend. Indian feminism must unite with Islamism, Communism, Sudra Nationalism and Christianity in order to fight a form of savagery known as Hinduism. By necessity this strategy shall have to vary according to region. In South and Central India, Sudra Nationalism promises to uplift Dravidian, Dalit and Adivasi women on a healthy platform of anti-Brahmanism. This pan-Negroist philosophy is thus a natural ally of Indian feminism. In North India, the allied Islamist ideologies of pan-Islamism and Mughalstanism have proven a potent forces for womens’ liberation, witness the Mughal emperors’ restrictions on Sati and female infanticide. Indian feminism should hence ally itself with these movements. Communism has helped women in West Bengal and Kerala, and is another natural ally for Indian feminism. Hence, by means of judicious realpolitik, the status of Indian women can be bettered.
No copyright
Since I have written this work for humanitarian purpose, I hereby make it free of any copyright. You may freely distribute this book, in part or in whole, via any means you desire, whether by internet, www, email, newsgroup, usenet, or any electronic means. You can also print out this book and translate it, and distribute it in pamphlet form.
Help Indian women
Please help Indian women. By distributing chapters of this book via the internet or as pamphlets, you shall be saving innocent lives. Each person can do his little towards this noble cause. By taking a little time to post this to a newsgroup, by hosting this book at your internet site or by adding a link to this book from your page, you shall be doing service towards a valiant movement. This doesn’t cost any money; it just takes a little effort. Please help, and prevent further young and beautiful Indian women such as my sister from premature death at the hands of Brahmin tyrants. Help end the genocide of women in India.
Thank You,
Sita Agarwal
I am a woman
Somia Sadiq
To crush you to dust, to drown your pride.
All those dreams you took away,
My life, my soul, you took away
In the name of honour, in the name of pride,
You consumed my tears, with every stride.
But I am a woman, and I will stop by,
To crush you to dust, to drown your pride.
You took away my right, my right to be free,
You stole my youth, you raped my innocence,
You taught me to shush, freeze my tears,
So I could stay your slave, lost forever,
Lost for the shattering of my bones,
Lost in the sound of you quenching your thirst,
A thirst to suppress, a thirst to oppress.
But I am a woman, and I will stop by,
To crush you to dust, to drown your pride.
How long did you think it’ll be?
Oh you stupid, stupid man!
I am a woman, fear my power,
I am the rain, a rain of fire,
I am awake, I will stop by,
To crush you to dust, to drown your pride.
No longer will I remain a slow silent procession,
Of suppressed wailings, of quiet agitation.
The spark of freedom that I tucked away,
Is now a fire, a storm, a wrath so powerful,
Fueled by the obsession for emancipation,
The obsession for freedom, obsession for love,
Obsession to wipe out the system that breeds you,
Obsession to eradicate all those like you,
Who suppress, oppress and antagonize.
Yes, I am a woman, and I will stop by,
With my comrades, standing as one,
Red flags in our souls, red dawn in our hearts,
To crush you to dust, to drown your pride.
I stand by your ear unseen
Sue Silvermaria
Before the flogging they buried me to my waist in mud
One hundred times and one, they beat me with a cane
Because I was wearing a burqa
the mullah was spared the sight of my blood
When my family took me home I was unconscious
They were forbidden to seek treatment
When I died the next morning no one was surprised.
It was three days after my 18th birthday.
I stand by your ear unseen.
When I was 14 I wanted to be a teacher. I remember laughing with my friends on the way home from school I remember writing poems about the future
daydreaming at the window into velvet sky
Impossible, then, to believe what would come
after the Taliban took our town.
I stand by your ear unseen.
When I was 15 they came. The wide world choked shut
Collapsed to a point of fear, hunger. Constant
My sisters and I ate what brothers left. Little.
They could leave the house for classes, for work
My mother’s office job was taken away
When my uncle would accompany her
she took her turn wearing a neighborhood burqa
so she could look for food. She sold our books
I stand by your ear unseen.
Three years. My youngest sister sickened
My father carried her to the hospital but
they told him to throw her away. She died at the door
That’s when my anger endangered all of us
In her name I started a secret school. To read
to write, five little girls and I risked our lives
I would do it again. It was a way for ghosts
to have hands and voices for awhile.
I stand by your ear unseen.
When another decree was issued,
that houses with women have all windows painted black,
we had no funds
My father was gone, forced into the militia
My mother had nothing left to sell
They marched in to bully us
found the hidden school slates behind my bed
Hauled to the mullah, I told nothing
He shut the door and raped me.
I stand by your ears unseen
Famine and depression make periods scant
I didn’t know about the baby at first
My aunt had the right herb in a hidden pot on her roof
She stayed while my baby bled out
A new decree, forbidden to make sound when we walk,
caught her when she left.
She didn’t have shoes that were silent
They beat her on the street until her accompanying son in his panic tried to shield her
by sacrificing me. The mullah learned everything.
I stand by your ear unseen.
He announced my offense of having an abortion
which proved I was promiscuous
My crimes cloaked his and no one
could do anything but pray I might survive
That prayer was not mine. I was ready to depart
I do not ask for personal mourning.
Twelve million living women and girls require your outrage
Lift your veil! Open your ear.
How would it feel
Lydia Brackett
How would it feel
To walk down the streets of your country and not be known
How would it feel
To be enslaved by your own husband
To be beaten
To be raped
To be tortured to death
With meaningless cries for help.
How would it feel
To be imprisoned from the outside
Forbidden to work
To have an education
Feeling life is not worth living for.
How would it feel
To feel unworthy of your own name.
