Break the silence

It seems to be a general agreement that the silence around violence against women and girls needs to be broken. Breaking the silence is seen as fundamental to preventing violence and protecting women and girls. It is also critical for justice to be administered.

I have intuitively agreed with this in principle. It's a good idea. It’s logical. It makes sense.

Now the question is, who should break this silence? The survivors? Their families? Their supporters? Onlookers? Service providers? Perpetrators? Their families? Their supporters?

My observation and experience is that the onus of breaking the silence tends to fall squarely on survivors and their kith and kin. And then there are members of the civil society—journalist, feminists, NGOs, academics, students—who may or may not join in the noise that has been unleashed. For the survivors, breaking the silence comes at a great peril. I think I am stating the obvious here but just so we are clear, the perils include but are not limited to: not being believed by the listener—family, police, justice providers, civil society; being attacked by the perpetrators/their supporters—acid attacks, murders, threats; general character assassination by all and sundry. Some survivors are acutely aware of these perils and some are not. Even before the perils, before the survivors consider (overtly or covertly) breaking of the silence, they are confronted by a complex set of emotions and beliefs related to their own personhood (including self esteem), their relationship with the perpetrator (and not just the Stockholm Syndrome) and so on.

For these reasons, I plead that the choice for breaking the silence is for the survivor to make and that we must respect this. We cannot demand that survivors break the silence so we are protected. That’s perverse. Something we are so used to, it seems natural. We cannot guarantee safety to the survivor after she breaks the silence—yet we expect her to break her silence. If she could take the beating and the rape, she certainly has the “strength” and “resilience” to cope with the consequences of breaking the silence for the greater good. Yes?

I have been relieved and felt supported by the breaking of the silence carried out by the civil society. Women and men, friends, lawyers, journalists, feminists, counselors, who have spoken and who have encouraged one to speak. We need to speak (not only as survivors). We need to listen. We need to engage. It is important. We need to examine our beliefs, our fears, our biases with the intention of and commitment to becoming better human beings. The one thing that has always made me shy from speaking or writing (about any personal or contentious matter) has been the judgment of my ability—am I intellectual enough? Feminist enough? Humanist enough? Comprehensive enough? Somewhere harsh criticism from early childhood when we first experience expression and reaction, judgment and fear of judgment affect our ability to express (or be creative in general).

In the wake of recent severe criticism of the BBC documentary on the December 2012 gang rape in New Delhi and on its filmmakers—especially from some feminists—I am again reminded of why I choose to remain silent and why breaking the silence is fraught not only with a multitude of overwhelming emotions collected over my personal history and the fear of being humiliated but now speaking out is  also a prisoner of judgment over its perfection by fellow humanists and feminists. When I attempt to break the silence, is the noise perfect?

It seems to be suggested that breaking of silence must follow a certain protocol. It must be totally comprehensive, it must be sophisticated—mapping every single factor and issue, cognizant of all kinds of impacts the breaking could have on existing laws (however oppressive and unhelpful they may be), on perpetrators (“accused”) rights. When I break the silence, I must not talk about what the perpetrator said about his crime or his views of the survivor—because by talking about his horrible views I end up inadvertently giving him a platform for justifying his actions. I cannot talk about his socio-economic background because I would contribute to stereotyping. I must fully research all data on socio economic background of all perpetrators and contextualize the one or the couple that I break the silence on. Again, it must be fully researched, fully contextualized. Always. No mistakes allowed.

Before breaking the silence I should also examine whether I have the legitimacy to break the silence. Who am I to break the silence over a violation that is not directly mine? I am the other, but am I insider enough? What lends legitimacy to the noise I make to break the silence? My gender—are only women legitimate noise-makers on women’s issues? My class—can only poor and socially marginalized women make noise about the rape of a poor and socially marginalized woman? My nationality—can only Indians make noise about violations in India on Indians, by Indians? It appears that the silence must only be broken by “insiders” who fully comprehend the “context” in which the violence occurs.

Breaking of silence, within a context, is also the responsibility of whoever attempts to break their silence or else they must forever hold their peace. You cannot make any mistake when you break the silence.

Then there has been an old tradition (not raised in the critique being discussed here) of the “right time” for breaking the silence. If you didn't speak for 20 years, 20 months or 20 days, that long silence makes us suspicious of your truth. You also cannot break the silence while a case is sub judice because God forbid it may influence the “honest” and “fair” judicial process.

My dear feminist mentors, colleagues and friends—people I have looked up to for guidance and leadership—thank you for your respectful engagement with someone who attempted to break the silence. Thank you for making me feel that I too can attempt. With my meager intellectual capacities, faulty understanding of the laws of the land, incomplete understanding of the complex factors and remiss on some aspects—I am encouraged by the tone and content of your critique to open my mouth. To speak. Alas, the only sound that I find coming from my mouth is a wail. My words are tied up. Is this the emotional and intellectual silencing that historian Romila Thapa refers to in an article in support of Perumal Murugan.

If I speak, I know for a fact now, my fear has been proven true, I will be judged—not only for my character but also as a feminist. My personal history will be reduced to a judgment by fellow feminist of my shortcomings in breaking the silence and the illegitimacy of it all.  My humiliation knows no bounds. I am humiliated when I am violated. I am humiliated when I break the silence to family, police and in the courts. And then I am humiliated when I speak up for another survivor—because you taught me that the personal is political. But at that time you did not assert that the noise I make must be perfect.

I was moved by the BBC Documentary on the gang rape in New Delhi in December 2012. It broke my heart, yet again. It was not the first time I have heard of the gruesome violence in this particular case or of equally gruesome violence in general that is unleashed by human beings on one another.

What has caused me immense distress is the tone and tenor of the political discourse led by some respected feminists—it has distressed me more than the reaction of the government and its representatives. The latter has not distressed me, it has made me angry. I am distressed by the feminists who voiced their opposition to the documentary viciously. I am distressed by their unwillingness to engage with those (including fellow feminists) that appreciated the documentary and did not see any reason to debunk it and to ban it. I understand they did not approve of the documentary—they found it intellectually inferior and even damaging to the cause of women’s rights. What I do not understand is the manner of their discourse—judgmental and condescending of the filmmaker and people who appreciated the documentary. This was not a Bollywood movie cashing in on violence to sell products. This is a documentary made with the explicit intention of breaking the silence—the choice of content and quality of the noise was the documentary filmmaker’s. We could disagree with the content and not like the quality. We could and by all means should comment on it, and to help gain a better understanding (for everybody), engage in a healthy discourse without judging and accusing intentions, capacities and legitimacy of the noise-breaker.

What restores my faith in the civil society in India, yet again, is the noise by certain other respected feminists, who have assessed the reaction of fellow feminists opposed to the documentary, trying to understand their perspective, engaging with it and presenting their critique of that perspective. All the time, their tone and tenor is compassionate—towards the survivors and those that seek to break the silence, however intellectually meek they may have found that noise. I find myself incapable of the intellectual and emotional wherewithal for such presentation and I am grateful that these women have steered the discourse in a direction where we can engage.

Those feminists (and others) critical of the documentary and supportive of a ban (or delay in transmission) on it, have not yet responded to the counter perspective presented by fellow feminists. I hope they do. They must break their silence over the critique of their critique on the documentary. It need not be perfect, but it can be engaging. Let’s speak, let’s listen, let’s engage.