Sluts Unite

June 30, 2011

Breaking News: the “SlutWalk” has made its way to India. In Delhi no less, where a reported 80% of women experience sexual violence in some form. And as I scour the tubes for press and commentary, I find myself shocked, but not surprised, at the continued – and historically familiar – arguments against validity and the dismal awareness of purpose regarding women’s movements of resistance. A global paradigm shift is imperative; and I am relieved to say that the sluts are on the mission. This is my response to a recent editorial in the Hindustan Times.

Sluts Unite

It does not take a linguistic genius – or a feminist – to recognize that the term “slut” in “SlutWalk” is symbolic, not stereotypical. Reducing this global movement to a singular word in an effort to delegitimize it is precisely the reason these women - and the men who support them - are marching in the first place, be it sporting Bustiers, Board Shorts or Burkas. And if the redefinition of the word slut to signify a woman empowered enough to walk around in whatever she wants without fear of being brutalized is a result, fantastic. But to assume that the international “SlutWalk” phenomenon is only about dressing scantily clad is, quite frankly, as ignorant as a comment made by a police officer that women should not dress like sluts to avoid rape.

Writing an entire article that articulates the prescribed meaning of the word slut is perpetuating the age-old practice of shifting the focus from the perpetrator to the victim. To say nothing of the lack of critical thinking. Further yet, devaluing the work that women are doing by claiming that they are “objectifying” themselves simply represents poor research. It only takes a few clicks of the mouse to find the mantra of the SlutWalk movement: “Because we’ve had enough.” But I suppose that hundreds of thousands of women across the globe have been invalidated by incompetent journalism before. Journalism powered by a patriarchal mindset acting as the beneficiary of the status quo.

As a white woman in India, I certainly recognize the risk in exposing my body. But then again, I am painfully aware of that threat anywhere. I am one of all the women in the world who are in danger on a regular basis simply because she has a vagina. And a vagina is a pre-requisite for being a slut, as well as being treated like one regardless of what you wear. The point here is not that women who “look” like sluts are standing up for themselves or reclaiming rhetoric. Rather, women who are treated like sluts - and judging from this movement there are a lot of us out there - are coming together to speak out about the abuses they endure.

SlutWalk is about speaking truth to power. Announcing to the world that women everywhere are finished with being blamed for the sexual violence that is perpetrated against them. And the term slut is perfectly placed branding. Even if it doesn’t always translate across languages, it is creating dialogue about the presumption that women who are victimized should be taking responsibility for deeply embedded patriarchal violence that most certainly translates across culture. And nationality. And class. And race. And religion. And age. And ability. Not to mention the institutionalized, militarized and state sponsored forms.

It’s true; this movement erupted in the "West." But to rely on the overused argument that white western feminists are imposing their ideals on developing world women and in turn devaluing their concerns is circumventing the issue. Anyone who is versed on the evolution of the feminist movement knows that today’s feminists are hyper-aware of the imposition of ideology. Let us be reminded that the women organizing the events in Mexico City were Mexican women. Just as the women organizing the protest in Delhi are Indian women. They are brave enough to mobilize because they identify with an issue that affects women globally, and this a “genuine problem” indeed.

This movement is about solidarity, not a hierarchy of victimization. Yes, women in India are experiencing a deplorable amount of violence and violation of rights. But the true solutions to those issues are related to a paradigm shift in freedom, not protection. Freedom of mobility. Freedom from fear. Freedom of choice. Freedom from hunger. Freedom from violence. Freedom from exploitation. And yes, that includes freedom to wear whatever the hell we want. The women marching in SlutWalks remind us that women have to fight for those freedoms because we are simply not being protected against losing them; assuming that we had them to begin with.

Let us not forget the painful experience of a woman that led to this global outrage. The condescending, misguided and unsympathetic statement that cheering on the SlutWalkers “because everyone needs a bit of fun, a break from the normal routine, some diversion to liven up their lives,” is frighteningly akin to the justification a man might use to harass a woman on a street corner. And worse, this type of commentary represents the reductionist additude that allows men to rape her.

Cultural Comparisons

As some things are starkly different, others are remarkably the same.

June 28, 2011

A conversation about tampons reveals more than I am willing to admit. A fender bender takes two hours and 28 USD to remedy; a far cry from wasting time lining corporate pockets. Men with perceived power - and presumably women as well, although I have yet to meet one in India - are not interested in what I have to say. But women who can cook are valued beyond price tags. Bargaining is an art form and a commended trait, not a sign of cheapness.

Pudding is the term for dessert in Northern England, and only in Northern England; the reference confuses everyone else. Shiva moments - those instances when coincidence becomes serendipity - are universal. Safe water is important to everyone, but safe is relative. Men with big bellies love to rub them after a meal; in India, they like to pull up their shirts and do it on street corners. Dingy hole in the wall bars nestled in dark alleys are awesome.

Dogs are loyal, cats are tricky. Trash piles up on futbol fields but you wash your own tea cup. Agriculture sustains communities; sharing the yield is the purpose. Papaya is best when it has been sitting out for a day, put in the fridge after cutting and served with hot sauce. Indian style bathroom habits are actually more clean; toilet paper is gross if you think about it, and can't flush it. A smile will save you a headache and laughter will encourage respect, even when the circumstances are dim.

Beer tastes better cold. Women wearing bright colors are beautiful, period. The twang of Indian music mixes well with conversation. A shower is a luxury, even when it's chilly. Celebrations often sponsor dangerous behavior. Mosquitos are the worst at dusk but there are local remedies available if you just ask. Children are curious and generally harmless, but smarter than you think. Fifteen cows in the road is "no problem," just be patient. A good nights sleep is really important and an innocent wink can be taken the wrong way.

With love from India, wearing bangles and muddy feet.

Peace.

Diving into a Stream of Consciousness

June 22, 2011

If you have traveled out of your comfort zone you are familiar with the feeling – or lack of feeling may be a better way to describe it. As if floating in a ruse state, because what is happening is undoubtedly marking the calendar of your life, but it just doesn’t feel like much of anything, like it’s fake somehow. Like you are looking in at your life through a dirty window. Your own peeping Tom. A shifty sort of place that hovers between your normal comfortable life and your proud albeit unstable adventurous life. It’s like survival mode but less intense. Even waking up with a wretched hangover or allergic reaction doesn’t really hurt, even though you know it must.

Then… BAM. A JOLT. Something stark happens and it tosses you out of the haze and then drops you like a load of bricks into your circumstances. Thankfully all the while, because here is when you start noticing the details that cling together to create your experience.

The thick scent of burning rubbish mingling with the salty smell of the sea reminds me of what beef jerky tastes like. This morning as I brushed my teeth, I watched the neighborhood kids take turns pulling buckets of water from the well. I rinsed my toothbrush in running tap water and put it back in its shell. A debate immediately arises when the sound of hard fruit clunks against the roof tiles and disturbs the conversation. “Coconut.” “No, no. Mango.” I am picking up the India head-wag without trying. At first it was against my will, but last night I got a compliment, “You have a cute way of doing that thing, man.”

Bollywood is not alone in the breadth of Indian film culture. Regional languages and cinematic innovations have followed, launching Tollywood, Rollywood, Malluwood and others. I work with film fanatics. During the tourist season, Goa hosts massive parties where thousands of people can be found dancing until dawn on a secluded beach or remote hilltop with an immodest sound system. The ex-pat community is far less accepting than the local Goans. Kingfischer Strong is my evening cocktail of choice although the local port wine that comes in a handy plastic bottle is growing on me.

The Indian Press is like the US media on tabloid steroids. Imagine FOX News with more flashy video effects and stunning Bombay elites adorned with jewels as newscasters. The electricity goes out so often that the first thing I do when I get home in the evening is sling my headlamp around my neck. The rats are bigger than cats and they are quite bold. The have no problem to sit and stare at me from behind a twitchy nose; scrappy paws resting on fat bellies. My maid – what a strange experience to have a maid – is an amazing vegetarian cook. Sautéed Okra with red chili. Curried chickpeas. Garlic potato, plump peas and shredded cabbage simmered in ripe tomatoes. Rich traditional dal with a hint of coconut sweetness. Lentils stewed in ginger and onions. Fluffy basmati rice and hand made roti, warm and moist with oil.

My office days are filled with laughter. A witty British accent. A soft spoken newlywed with henna hands and shiny bangles. A pleasant French researcher who is always smiling. A pair of cultured female editors with dark eyes, stylish clothes, intelligent commentary and a passion for film. A jovial long haired urban fellow with a twinkle in his eye that I can’t pin down; its either mischievous or joyous, but perhaps its both. A quiet but assertive young woman fresh from university with smooth dark skin and a talent for bargaining. A volunteer from Jordan with a lengthy history in acting, an endearing brand of ditsy-ness and an adventurous spirit. A film critic from Bangalore with a bulky mustache, tousled hair and square glasses; he reminds me of a sophisticated Bollywood version of Burt Reynolds. A shy former “office boy” turned web programmer who is too humble for his talent and makes the best chai of anyone in the office, hands down. We are not exactly a motley crew but as I find myself spending more and more time with them outside of the office, I am certainly becoming part of a quirky crew indeed.

The Woman from Fort Aguada: A Short Story

June 20th, 2011

This story is not meant to be factual, although I have based it on historical and local research. This comes only days since I took a long drive up the coast to relieve myself from the sadness of previous days events; bribing a police officer and witnessing a brutal beating. What I found on that drive has inspired this piece. Fort Aguada is a real place and the images you see are mine. The women in my story are real women, and I feel I know them well. But I write this story as it flourishes in my imagination and here inlays the fiction. Because I have found in my life, that I heal best when the stories come.

The Woman from Fort Aguada

Just after the turn of 17^th century, the Portuguese built a fort of bricks and mortar on the rocky Sinquerim beach peering out at the Arabian Sea. The fort was named Aguada after the fresh water spring that gurgled from deep beneath the ground. Fort Aguada served not only to protect the colony from Dutch invasion but also to guide ships into the port at the mouth of the Mandovi River where they were vulnerable to attacks by the Maratha tribes of the north. A lighthouse was erected high on a hilltop and its beam projected out across the bay and onto the peninsula beyond.

On the eve of her twenty-ninth birthday a British woman lounged on a cushion in her modest home near Candolim. She had been living in Goa for several years and found herself entranced by the coconut palms, the pleasant greetings and the movement of the seasons. She wore a silk robe from the import shop she had recently opened in the urban center. A sudden breeze off the sea blew in through the window and the curtains trembled like a flag on the wind. The monsoons were coming. Her boyfriend lay sleeping in the bedroom. And a knock came at the door.

António de Oliveira Salazar came from a humble family, born at the dawn of the twentieth century. He studied Seminary and Law and rose to power in Portuguese politics during the onslaught of World War II. His fascist colonial policies echoed in the lives of Indians on the distant shores of Goa; a small but immensely beautiful land that he was reluctant to visit. When India gained its independence from Britian in 1947, Salazar refused to relieve Goans of their Portuguese statehood and a battle for freedom ensued. Salazar ordered all political prisoners to be held in the depths of Fort Aguada, where iron bars met the deadly undertows of the sea.

She refused to pay on principle although she had more than enough stowed away in a suitcase under the bed. The police had been searching the house for more than an hour when an officer in plain clothes came in through the front door holding a small black plastic bag. He said he found the hash in the garden. She loved her garden; it was brimming with blooms and mangoes this time of year. Smoking hash was out of the question; she had suffered from asthma since she was a small girl growing up in Oxford. As they wrestled her boyfriend into the back of the jeep she was calm and spoke softly to him, “We haven’t done anything wrong my dear. It will only take a moment to sort it out.”

When Indian Hotels Co. bought the 88 acres of coastal property they agreed to maintain the historical Fort Aguada. The lawyers negotiated a reduced price instead of handing over the bundles of cash it would require to have the prison relocated. They built beautiful seaside bungalows and plush spas overlooking the ruins. They allowed the peddlers to push their goods at the entrance of the historical site and offered four guided tours daily. They warned the guides that mentioning the foreign prisoners held on drug charges in the bowels of the fort could cost them their jobs. The only signs of life at Fort Aguada historical site are the deep green mosses that creep up the walls and across lawns, the mangled overgrowth in the bottomless moat and the tourists bustling about.

I wrestled my scooter into a sliver of space between two buses and wiped the sweat from my face with the sleeve of my shirt. The entrance was buzzing with tourists, although I was the only white person in site other than an overweight man in thick glasses wheezing as he sat slumped on a rock nearby. I pushed the play button on my Ipod and began to walk down the red dirt path towards the stairs to the tower. I was stopped twice on the way by groups of men asking if they could have their photograph taken with me. I refused politely the first time and the second time allowed my disdain a moment of glory.

I passed a series of iron bar doors on the way up the steps but couldn’t see down the corridors into the darkness beyond their guard. From the top the view of the sea and the city of Panjim on the far shore was breathtaking. But I felt most taken by the red door to lighthouse adorning a poorly painted sign that read, “Entry Prohibited.”

Judging from the fingernail scratches on the wall, it has been ten years and 4 days since they walked her down the stairs into her cell. She is only a shadow of the woman she once was. Her teeth are a rotten yellow and even missing. Her skin hangs from her bones, kept in place only by the ration of rice and roaches that have sustained her all these years. Her mother sobs from her gut as she walks through the gate. She can feel the weight of her frailty with the embrace of her family. She muscles a brave smile and assures them she is fine. Her thoughts wonder to a decade ago as she sat in the Mapusa police station and listened to the Commander as he revealed the charges against her. “Ten years in Fort Aguada,” he said. As they drove down the winding road away from the prison she stared off across the lush landscape. It had been a day like this when the knock came at the door. It was one of those blessed clear days when the monsoons are just beginning. As they began down the hill she saw a woman standing on the edge of the cliffs just off the road. She asked the driver to stop.

I had been standing there for quite some time. A few minutes ago a man with sacks in his arms had wandered past. I expressed to him how beautiful the view was and asked him if it was a monastery far below where the rocks met the sea. He smiled sheepishly and said, “No, no. Prison.” He motioned ahead up the road and then he meandered on his way. It was such a stunning sight to be spoiled by captivity. But I was curious and so I turned off the camera and began to prepare myself to continue on. I could see the lighthouse from where I was standing on the edge of the cliffs.

When she came up behind me I was startled. She moved quietly like a ghost. She whispered a soft hello and then stood very still and gazed out. I was frozen in her presence. She seemed ill and worn and tired, but she looked like me somehow.

Before she turned and walked painfully away she said, “If you count down five windows from the end, there dwells the spirit of a freedom fighter. He came to me in my dreams and taught me how to live.”

"Amreeka" – An American’s Film Club Experience in Goa

June 15th, 2011

Last night I attended my first film screening for a local and seemingly thriving film club in Goa. The film of the night was “Amreeka;” the story of the personal struggles faced by a Palestinian woman and her son who immigrate to the United States. It is important to note that this is not a story about refugees, despite the abhorrent truth that Palestinians are virtually refugees in their own homes. In “Amreeka,” the characters are most certainly agents in their circumstances.

The film has an extremely narrow geographical focus in a distant and rather undefined suburb of Chicago. More narrow however, is the film’s spotlight on Arab-American relations. It is the stereotypical type caste of racist Muslim hating U.S. citizens and the plight of an Arab family who clings to their customs and traditions. But of course the film does not miss the opportunity to grant small parts to characters who dispel the stereotypes – as if the plotline required the token gesture. Don’t get me wrong, the story is compelling; anyone who has displaced him or herself can identify. Homesickness. Self-doubt. Culture shock. Confusion.

Humorous mishaps in adaptation.

The film is filled with fairly subtle and generally funny US cultural references. For instance, that there is an unspoken hierarchy in fast food restaurants; Wendy’s is more acceptable than White Castle. Or the hilarious herbal weight loss craze that feeds infomercials and pyramid schemes and inevitably “fat” people. Or the quintessential line of the high school dropout about getting a GED. And for the most part, I was one of few in the room to giggle at those references. But when the film was done and the discussion began, there was no lack of conviction about who an “American” is or what “America” is like.

The room was tight, with more than 20 people sitting on chairs and couches and cushions on the floor. I was the only American. And I do not make the mistake of overlooking America as inclusive of Central and South America as many of my peers did this evening. In fact, in my observation of the heated post-film conversation, “America” and “American” are casually perceived as monolithic entities to describe the United States and those – presumably white – people who hold the USA as their nationality. I regret that Latin Americans were simply not represented, mentioned nor considered, even in the context of a an argument about immigration.

I am the first to criticize US politics and hegemony. I am not shy to speak up about racism, discrimination, sexism and consumer culture. But, the United States is a vastly diverse country. A benign suburb of Chicago says nothing about Southern California beach life, New Orleans Cajun history, Rocky Mountain ski towns, vast Montana ranch land, Seattle sub-cultures, idiosyncratic New Jersey, the native South West, Mid-Western farm country or the colonial North East. And the people are as varied as the landscape.

As it seems, it is not – or perhaps no longer – only a western neo-colonial trait to categorize people in a flailing attempt to define them. And it wasn’t only Americans that were pigeonholed. One of my co-workers was branded as something quite precise because he is from Bangalore– although I have no idea what that means.

My point is this: If all Americans are like the assholes depicted in the film and the States are simply a scene of strip malls and chain restaurants, then all Muslims are terrorists and the Middle East is barren desert. Such limited thinking is a ridiculous waste of time.

What will it take to shift the paradigm away from us vs. them ideology? Is it possible to understand the self without pejoratively defining the other? Why do we insist on limiting our perceptions? Are we that lazy? Is global citizenship as a unifying worldview simply unattainable because nationalism is unabatedly tied to international systems of identity?

Failed. State. System.

I didn’t pose any of these questions last night; I simply felt humbly outnumbered and timid about a potential debate. So unlike me. Perhaps it’s best, I would hate to re-enforce the “pushy American” type caste. Yet, much to my chagrin, I may have promoted the “stupid American” one. I suppose we will see what the film is next week.

Peace and Love. For Everyone.

An Indian Graffiti Haiku

June 15th, 2011

color focused strokes on walls

signify ideas

a time zone storyteller

A Humbled and Fumbling Filmmaker

June 14^th, 2011

I have always been the type of person to step off a cliff. I take risks. I strive for dreams even when they may seem unrealistic. I’m proud of that. Like the old sayings go, I practice what I preach and I walk the walk. But with that comes the days of self-doubting internal dialogue: “Really Tonia, who the hell do you think you are?”

Today is one of those days.

Engaging with the medium of film has been an empowering albeit self-effacing experience thus far. I find myself incredibly inspired by the possibilities of employing my intellectual and creative self in tandem. But like any art form, I often stumble on my expectations. I suppose that struggle can be ascribed to any attempt at success.

And there is that word. Success.

A concept both irritating and motivating and utterly powered by fear of failure.

And there is that word. Failure.

I am settled and comfortable in India now. I have the details ironed out. So it is time to whole-heartedly pursue the work I am here to do. It is time to put my skills, or lack of them, to work on the projects I aim to complete. As I zipped home from work on my trusty scooter named “Simba” today, I passed two men laughing as they wrestled a bicycle piled with sacks of produce through puddles and cows and traffic. It was a perfect scene to shoot. But I was suddenly paralyzed and didn’t take the camera out of my bag. I can’t be sure if I was worried I would offend them or if I was scared that I would not capture the magic of it all. Either way, it is an opportunity missed, no matter how small.

Like the sacks on that bicycle, I feel the weight of success and failure on my back. I am shy to say that I pray I can leave the bags in the market – because we all know that is where success and failure belong – and get on this bicycle and ride.