Women

10 Things We Say When We Speak About Rape

Layers of rhetoric surround rape in India, a place where it is easier to perform the action than speak about it with clarity.

The sense of disquiet or fear that pervades the life of most Indian women is further intensified with every new rape that is reported, whether in rural or urban India, whether to children as young as four or to a woman out with her friend or a woman accompanying her husband in an ambulance. Every day rapes occur, we read of a new incident, those in power offer anodyne words and people speak about the need to impose the death penalty for rape.

In what follows I make an effort to unpack the rhetoric that surrounds rape in India, a place where it is easier to perform the action than speak about it with clarity.

The names and labels used in everyday conversation and journalism (I am writing of the use of these terms in the everyday register, not in the usage by the law or in terms of the laws) for various forms of sexual harassment of women include molestation, sexual harassment, sexual assault, rape, outraging the modesty of a woman, groping, and eve-teasing. A Google search reveals that these are all terms that are used, sometimes interchangeably, except maybe for ‘eve-teasing’ which even in India is seen as ‘frivolous’, but is still used, even by the police.

If we were to grade these terms in accordance with the severity of the act, many would agree that this would be the gradation we derive: eve-teasing – sexual harassment – molestation – outraging the modesty of a woman – groping – sexual assault and finally rape. And yet does this kind of gradation help in anything other than the obfuscation of the actual act? Does it not trivialise what happens? If a woman is groped, then to term it eve-teasing makes it an act that should be seen as some form of light entertainment (for whom?) rather than the violation of the woman’s body that it actually is. Similarly the use of the term “sexual harassment” for the incident at one of the prominent NITs wherein a student, alone in her hostel room, had a worker expose himself and make lewd gestures at her, makes the incident one which was harassment but not of an aggravated-enough degree.

By naming incidents with these variable terms, we make it possible to tone down the gravity of the incident itself, normalising the deviance, shifting the focus away from what the victim undergoes.

The protests of the wrestlers against Brij Bhushan Sharan Singh’s behaviour and the sexual harassment that he had allegedly subjected them to, makes the same point: were the wrestlers raped? No. ‘At most he groped them, touched them in order to check their breathing.’ Vinesh Phogat spoke about the ways in which these terms help to normalise what is done to girls. She spoke of how touching was seen as okay. The level of assault determined whether it was worth making a fuss about, uncaring of the effect that it may have had on the person who was ‘touched.’ She calls the line that defines where ‘normal’ ends and where harassment begins a ‘dangerous’ one.

Many who would like to call these ‘minor’ incidents, rationalise them by saying that ‘nothing happened’ to the girl(s), as in the case of the wrestlers and the hostel student. To this, Phogat says that in India “They will only take it seriously when the assault is gruesome”.

So the many incidents where men expose themselves before women, masturbate before them, show them pornography, touch them or grope them are all minor infringements, not to be reported or protested against. And among the best ways of rendering them minor is to call them eve-teasing, outraging the modesty of a woman, or some such euphemistic phrase which obscures the violation perpetrated upon the woman.

“Nothing much happened” is often used as a protective shield too, to excuse gender harassment in the workplace, or negligible transgressions of a woman’s personal space. In these cases, assault or rape may not happen but unwanted comments and gestures do and there may be other forms of sexual harassment. These are often covered up with claims that ‘nothing much happened’, ‘no one has been hurt’, etc., yet another instance of what Phogat speaks of when she says that, “Indian society normalises abuse and harassment.”

Also read: Being Vinesh Phogat — Wrestling with Power

Which are the rape cases or cases of sexual harassment that get the most media attention in India today?

In the immediate past it has been the Anna University case and the R.G. Kar case. Around the same time as the latter the rape of two little girls at Badlapur in Maharashtra by a contractual cleaner brought the town to a standstill. Back in 2019 there was the Hyderabad veterinary doctor rape case; in 2018 it was the Kathua case where an eight-year-old was held captive, raped and killed, and in 2012 it was the Delhi rape case. The stripping, groping, rape and naked parading of two Manipur women, the Hathras case and further back in time, the Bilkis Bano case, and the Bhanwari Devi rape case also received a lot of media coverage.

Illustration: Pariplab Chakraborty.

Why is it that some cases receive more attention than others? In the main, we prioritise cases where the brutality is extreme, bodies are broken and where the victim is middle class or upwardly mobile, is a child, or where the rape is part of a systemic problem. The extreme brutality and violence visited upon the body of the Delhi rape victim in 2012, and the R.G. Kar victim is one reason, but much of India takes cognizance only when we can identify the victim by her profession – veterinary doctor, doctor, physiotherapist, and social worker.

In a country where upwards of 30,000 rapes are reported yearly, where a rape occurs every 15 minutes and where there must be far more taking place that go unreported, the news media highlights those that strike a chord or where the rape is embedded within a larger issue that also haunts the nation – whether that is Manipur, the Gujarat riots, the caste system or the situation of the nomadic Bakerwal tribe in then-Jammu and Kashmir state.

From as far back as I can remember, the usage of maa-behen-beti to refer to the women of this country has been a commonplace, especially when election season is ongoing, or when a ‘grievous’ rape has taken over the media. At that point the speaker embeds the women of the nation in this familial structure, wherein they are all either mothers or daughters or sisters. But the family structure is also exclusionary, and those who may not be accounted a mother/sister/daughter, can then become prey to those who think of them as the outsider. The family, whether by blood or in terms of the nation or race or caste or community, supposedly keeps its women safe while making it possible to prey upon those who do not belong to the said family. This becomes particularly apparent at times of communal riots and unrest, or in times leading up to such violence when there are explicit calls to rape women who belong to the ‘other’ community or people group.

This ‘familial’ rhetoric is particularly troubling when one takes into account the fact that rape is often committed by a family member. While marital rape is not something that Indian law recognises, it does take into cognisance the fact that family members often perpetrate rape upon their women and young girls from their own families. The widespread nature of this is apparent in statistics from the National Crime Records Bureau for 2022, in which out of 31516 cases, 2324 were by family members. And these are only those that have been reported. Even as the familial rhetoric dominates the discourse when a particularly violent rape dominates the headlines, that does not mean that within the family women or girls are safe. Books such as Hush and short films such as Devi make this particularly clear.

Devi ends with a frame with the words: “It is ironic that crime rates against women are higher in a nation where nearly 80% of the population worships goddesses.” Interestingly, there is also some myth-making around this fact: that as a nation we are devoted to the goddesses we worship and because we perceive women as goddesses, they are safe. Given the horrific numbers of rape and violence-against-women cases in India, this is manifestly untrue. And yet this is a popular myth as the film Devi makes clear, but one that was also busted in the aftermath of the R.G. Kar rape case, when various people exhorted the protesters to put aside the protests and focus on the Durga Puja festivities that were about to begin.

By equating women with goddesses we do a disservice to women in their everyday lives. Goddesses are powerful to a greater or lesser degree, capable of dealing with evil in the human and divine realms, and they dispense justice for mortals. Which part of this is seen as akin to what mortal Indian women go through on a daily basis? And yet, Indian girls and women are equated to goddesses and some are even worshipped on specific days.

Also read: ‘Restrooms Without a Latch and Bolt’: The View From R.G. Kar Hospital

Naming the victim of rape or in any way making it possible to identify the said victim is forbidden by Indian law and this is seen as, variously, a way of protecting the woman from further victimization or ridicule or ostracisation, of protecting the family which might otherwise feel the dishonour in worse ways, in their family, neighbourhood, etc. The law is meant to protect the woman who is otherwise shamed in our society but it also leads to an erasure of the victim.

The way in which the stigma associated with rape is vested largely in the woman is indicative of the honour code of our patriarchal society and also adds layers to the woman’s responsibility for what was done to her. She is responsible because she may have “asked for it”; been friendly with strangers; been out late; been at a bar or club, getting drunk; dressed inappropriately; been in a profession that was not quite respectable; etc. That none of these may be applicable and that the man is at fault is overlooked time and again, as the meme below indicates. Yet the shame is still the woman’s and hence she and her family should not be shamed further by having their identity revealed.

While the woman is often stigmatised as seen above, in cases which are seen as heinous, the rapist is sometimes referred to as an animal, someone other than human. In the aftermath of the R.G. Kar case, the psychoanalysts spoke of the rapist as a sexual pervert, with “animal-like instincts”. By calling the rapist “animal-like” we dehumanise them and make it possible, indeed necessary, for them to be despised and hated, for the death penalty to be demanded for them and even for them to be killed in an encounter. We also overlook the fact that it was a human, not an animal who committed this grievous act.

But in addition to stigmatizing the individual rapist, the use of the term “animal” to refer to him renders all other men human. While offering a convenient and necessary scapegoat, we also lull ourselves into the complacent belief that other men are not so, they are human and not animal like in their sexual desires, their perversions stop well short of the animal-like. Is this usage one that offers men a convenient cover for the so-called “minor” atrocities visited upon women folk that may never be called out or see the light of day? Is this a strategy that helps women to live without worrying about every man one encounters? The animal and the human is a convenient categorisation that differentiates the vile and vicious from the everyday tormenter.

In cases such as Delhi 2012 or R.G. Kar, where the victim is not blamed for the rape, and where the terrible nature of the crime is acknowledged by all, the usual move is to demand the death penalty for the rapists. This is a demand that comes from the ordinary people as well as politicians. The usual reasons cited by those who ask for capital punishment is that the existing laws are not strict enough and that the death penalty will be an adequate deterrent for those who might contemplate rape. This usually leads to some back-and-forth among those belonging to the party in power and those attacking them as to whether the law is strong enough. In the aftermath of the Delhi 2012 case the Union government set up the Justice Verma committee to recommend changes in rape laws, which in turn led to the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 2013.

While the demand for the death penalty is commonly held to be the most just response to the gravity of the crime, it also gestures towards some kind of notional closure for the survivor or the victim’s family, a demonstration of justice seen to be done, and in cases such as the encounter killing in Hyderabad, jubilation that justice has been served, swiftly. This also recognises the slow pace of justice via courts where thousands of rape cases proceed slowly and interminably.

Underlying the demand for capital punishment is also the assumption that the law and police actions are all that are required to keep women safe.

One of the missing components in attempts to reduce incidents of rape is the shaping and educating of the young: an education that should extend from within the family to the community and nation. An education that within the family would show boys and girls that they are equal, that demeaning the latter is in no way acceptable and that would also show boys that there are unpleasant consequences for the ill-treatment of women. This is too big an ask for a land where small acts of violence against women are condoned, where in law there is no such concept of marital rape and where restrictive, patriarchal mores are still the norm.

And while it might be possible to educate the young at least somewhat, there can hardly be “adult education classes” for men and women “for gender empowerment”, even though this was one of the recommendations of the Justice Verma Committee.

Also read: Mere Outrage Cannot Rid This Nation of the Language of Rape

Even if we were to educate all of both genders, one of the prime areas would need to be the concept of consent.

In discussions of rape in India, the question of consent is usually in two contexts: one, in cases of what might be called “breach of promise”, such as cohabitation and eventual break up, where the woman feels cheated and the man is accused of rape; and two, in cases where the age of consent (which is 18 under Indian law) is used to claim that even if a younger teenager willingly entered into sexual relations with a person, her family members can claim rape as she is seen as a child and not of the age which can accord consent legally. In both cases there is a criminalisation of consensual relationships and punitive action for the male.

In other cases, consent is rarely brought into the picture.

In cases which receive widespread media coverage, it is either apparent from the woman’s body, battered and broken, that she resisted with all her might or involves a small child – how can a four- or eight-year-old consent to something that is outside their sphere of knowledge?

But the legal codes in India do speak of consent at some length and the contexts in which consent cannot be seen as such: if it is obtained via fear, threat, or by the use of substances or when the person is of unsound mind. And yet, do we ever speak of consent as an integral and necessary part of a relationship? Do most Indian men understand the concept of consent and how it should impact their sexual desires and needs? Of course, this discussion becomes even more fraught every couple of years or so when the issue of marital rape is raised by society or the law or by some case which brings it into the public gaze once again. The fact that India does not “recognise” marital rape reduces the wife to someone who, having consented to the marriage, has consented to sexual relations in perpetuity with her legally wedded husband. What price consent?

We all know the words that are used every time a rape dominates our headlines. But the ways in which we speak of it, the words we use and the customary rhetoric employed by the media, the politicians and us, the ordinary people, also structure our thoughts and our understanding of what rape is, who should be kept safe, how the rapist should be punished, etc. While the rhetoric of rape in India is often affective and impassioned it is also, by virtue of its coded nature, anodyne and evasive.

Anna Kurian is faculty fellow, UNESCO Chair in Vulnerability Studies, Department of English, University of Hyderabad.

When a Rape-Murder Is Fodder for News Channels’ Festival Advertisements

The behaviour of news media during the Durga Puja festival – which came shortly after the R.G. Kar rape and murder in 2024 – signals a pervading insensitivity.

As developments relevant to the rape and murder of the doctor at the R.G. Kar Medical College and Hospital in Kolkata recedes to the inside pages and diminishes to passing mentions, we will do well to sit up to a seemingly innocuous appropriation of the incident. This subtle leveraging of a horrific event by TV news media outlets in Bengal took place during the 2024 Durga Puja.

It must be said that this appropriation was less crude than many presentations that pass for news on TV channels today. However, such an appropriation of a news event into a festival has its roots in the need of the media-corporate nexus to be ahead in the race for viewership.

Billboards featuring build-up campaigns leading up to the festival played on the word ‘Durga’, ostensibly to celebrate independent women. In a series of ads by one such TV news channel, a woman doctor was featured on one such billboard, along with women following other white-collar professions.

Another one had a similar message but sans the doctor. It said that Durga Puja means celebrating the ‘Durgas’.

Perhaps the boardroom brainstorming was around the urgency to do something that would not irk the already furious public further and rake in the views. Many believed people to be ready to shun festivities and thus shake the economy.

Hence, boldly posing before the camera were actors playing the roles of ‘successful’ women in ‘respectable’ professions to make a statement around the fact that women are no less, that they deserve the respect of the society and so on.

The women were in neat clothing, lest the brands associating with them be thrown off. Anything that might even remotely lead the audience to think deeper is best avoided. Playing up stereotypes around the ‘cultured Bengali’ keeps the audience in good humour.

A Durga Puja installation depicts the R.G. Kar trainee doctor who was raped and murdered in August. Photo provided by author.

It is okay if society tends to normalise sexual assault on women with “questionable moral character”. It is okay for us to feel a tad less outraged at such a crime happening to a poor woman – a pavement dweller or someone belonging to a poverty-stricken rural household. It is okay that such stories barely make it to the front page or become a breaking news, unless there is a potential for sensationalism.

The bottom line of all this: come and join the noise of news that is heavily dependent on advertisements. Noise is the indispensable currency by which you can satisfy the compulsion to preserve the stereotypes around rape in our society: dishonour to the woman, victimisation of the victim, and worth our attention only when it happens to a ‘respectable’ woman.

Whatever the majority gravitates to dictates corporate strategy. That the ruling party in Bengal swept the by-elections in November indicates at a possibility that rural or semi-urban people could not identify fully with the outrage of the tragedy. These are the people who suffer more due to the lack of access to quality healthcare. Many among them nurse a grudge against healthcare providers too. This explains why an eco-system was working overtime to erect a slur campaign against the protesting doctors. The urban lens of the media-corporate nexus fails to see such intricacies.

Also read: R.G. Kar: Five Lessons From an Urban Power Struggle

But more importantly, what are the ramifications of a media having complete disregard for nuances? Can a media’s role solely be driven by profiteering? What degree of compulsions can lead them to create an advertisement around a gut-wrenching tragedy that shook the conscience of the people?

The larger section of the so-called mainstream media propels itself into action whenever there is a glimmer of an opportunity to get more audience, irrespective of what it is – a tragedy, a win in a cricket match, or an opportunity to drum up cosmetic patriotism. Who wins in this race seems to win the game of garnering more viewership. They do it because they know that it is this kind of stuff that the larger section of the society laps up. Social media had anyway been flooded with posts on the woman doctor mentioning her real name and expressing sympathies in a tone symptomatic of patriarchy and exhibitionism. Catering to that very instinct made good business sense, forget the responsibility to question the people or show a mirror to them.

No wonder that we even have a channel today to give us ‘good news’ only, something quite akin to George Orwell’s 1984.

The viewership of these media outlets grows by the day. The algorithms of social media help the cause – flooding timelines with whatever keeps on triggering fear, hate and greed. The audience of this comprises even the Rabindrasangeet loving Bengali, who require just a little nudge to believe any number of rumours about the doctor’s ‘murderers’ and discuss the religion of two of the people apparently involved in the crime.

While the protests had given hope, the displays of insensitivity point to the rot.

Biswapriya Nandi is a marketing communications professional.

Sunitha Krishnan’s Life Is a Story of Grit, Determination and Persuasion

In her autobiography I Am What I Am, the activist talks about her work with survivors of sex trafficking over the last three decades and how she has persevered despite serious adversities.

I Am What I Am, Sunitha Krishnan’s autobiography, is the powerful and honest story of the founder of Prajwala, the largest organisation in Asia fighting sex trafficking. Krishnan, a Padma Shri recipient, has been instrumental in drafting several victim-centric policies, comprehensive training manuals and handbooks for law enforcement in India’s anti-trafficking ecosystem. In her memoir, Krishnan talks about the five decades of her life and three decades of her activism.

Sunitha Krishnan
I Am What I Am
Westland, 2024

What makes I Am What I Am a compelling read is the gripping narrative and Krishnan’s approach towards challenges. Her story is one of grit and determination, charting her journey from Bangalore, where she faced a harrowing 24-day arrest for attending a rally, to her impactful rehabilitation work in Hyderabad. Her unwavering belief in the divine and trust in the universe served as a guiding light, even when faced with life-threatening encounters. Throughout, she shares valuable lessons on trust, belief and courage.

Krishnan does not adopt a victim mindset while talking about her experience as a survivor of sexual assault while on an education drive for kids in a village. Instead, she was driven by the conviction to turn her experience into a mission to rescue and rehabilitate as many survivors as possible. Her first rescue was when she was just 17, showcasing her unwavering. She has gone on to rescue 28,900 survivors, rehabilitated 26,900 people and prevented 18,000 children from entering the sex trade since she set up Prajwala in 1996.

In Krishnan’s three decades of activism, she faced many challenges such as death threats, vandalism, hostility by victims in court, betrayal, bureaucratic red tape and physical assault. Her resilience shines through, from surviving a near-fatal auto rickshaw attack and an acid assault to having her nasal septum broken while rescuing Rizwana, a young girl then and now a head constable in the police force. Krishnan’s only mission has been to fight for justice and uplift survivors of trafficking. There are many more such rescue stories in the book which will keep you engrossed and inspired.

Also read: ‘Held Captive, Pushed Into Prostitution’: Chilling Accounts of Punjabi Women Rescued From the Gulf

Apart from the hardships and struggles, the book also introduces you to the people in her life who stood by her throughout: her family, her grandmother, her friend Jo (who was a mentor and guide too) and Rajesh, who not only believed in her selfless work but eventually chose her as his life partner, highlighting the importance of support and love in overcoming challenges.

The chapters that stood out for me were chapter 10, ‘Moving Away for Good’, and the ones that followed. Krishnan makes the pivotal choice to leave her parents behind and start afresh in Hyderabad after a humiliating and disturbing arrest. It felt like she was following her true calling as fate guided her toward the cause she was destined to support. Her secret visits to Mehboob ki Mehendi, Hyderabad’s “red light district”, all while she continued her advocacy for slum dwellers, marked the start of her remarkable journey. She felt compelled to step in and help these women, and her dedication ultimately led to The Eternal Flame – Prajwala – becoming the largest organisation in Asia fighting sex trafficking. The rest, as they say, is history.

Even today, Krishnan challenges the society’s attitude toward survivors and demands a shift in perspective. Why is the victim always blamed? Why the apathy toward survivors? And why the resistance to their inclusion?

Krishnan’s story is one of determination for anyone who wants to make a difference. The final chapter, ‘I Am What I Am’, captures this sentiment beautifully. This book is a must read for anyone who wants to understand the complexities of human trafficking, as well as the extraordinary resilience of the human spirit.

Sarika Chavan is the Founder of Sparkle Gift Cards. She writes one book review each month since 2021. These are published at Reputation Today. She has recently edited a book called Spark, a collection of real life stories of India’s Public Relations pioneers. She lives in Mumbai.

Those Who Outrage Over Ramesh Bidhuri’s Sexist Remarks Miss the Point

Let it be said clearly: in Bharat, women are to be worshipped, not respected, and, god forbid, not to be made equal. That would be constitutional, not civilisational.

There is a disingenuous outcry against statements made by the honourable Ramesh Bidhuri of the “party with a difference.” The former MP had said that if elected he would make roads in Delhi as good as “Priyanka Gandhi’s cheeks”.

Bidhuri subsequently, against strong backlash, made that customary and political ‘take-back-what -I-said-if-sentiments-hurt’ statement which we have become used to.

He also said about Atishi that in “changing her name from Marlena to Singh [the Delhi CM dropped her last name a while ago]”, she had changed her father – ‘baap badal dala‘.

The uppity-progressive, so-called modernist holier-than-thou outrage that follows misses the larger point that informs Shri Bidhuri’s concerns.

Put squarely, this uproar once again suggests how out of sync our elites are still with the profundity of our civilisational values.

Did not the Manusmriti, that scripture of scriptures which missed out becoming our constitution because of the rational misdemeanours of some of our founding fathers, enjoin upon us that women are to remain in protective check of first the father, then the husband, and last of the son?

But no, our founding fathers, corrupted by the high-falutin principles of pernicious events like the old French Revolution, and then the even worse, the Bolshevik one, had only a deaf ear for the wisdom of our civilisational instructions; they had to inscribe equality of all disastrous sorts for women when Nature clearly had no such equality in mind.

Also read: From Hema Malini to Priyanka Gandhi: Male Gaze is a Reality of Indian Politics, Both Sides of the Aisle

For more than seven lost decades, we have had to make political noises to conform to a constitution which contradicts our civilisational treasure-trove of insights in every line and paragraph.

But how long may such arbitrary compulsions hold in check the truths of Nature and the teachings of Manu?

What wonder then that dedicated civilisational soldiers like Bidhuri feel constrained now and again to voice that deep frustration with the undesirable prominence of women in our public life which Manusmriti, had cautioned us against?

Notwithstanding the sins of these lost decades, however, the tide is turning. Thank Prajapati, this Vishwaguru nation is stridently returning to the timeless tablets of ancient sagacity.

Those that still foolishly seek to stand in the way may not have too long a rope left to keep from descending into the pit where they truly belong.

Clearly, Macaulay who still stirs a hand or a foot in his coffin is now set to be truly dead and buried without hope of resurrection.

Let it be said clearly: in Bharat, women are to be worshipped, not respected, and, god forbid, not to be made equal. That would be constitutional, not civilisational.

Badri Raina taught at Delhi University.

This piece was first published on The India Cable – a premium newsletter from The Wire & Galileo Ideas – and has been updated and republished here. To subscribe to The India Cable, click here.

‘I’m Just a Girl’: Social Media Props up Lighter Side of Girlhood, but What About Its Dark Side?

The most brutal truth of girlhood is that violence isn’t just feared, it’s expected.

In recent years, social media has given rise to a variety of light-hearted trends that revolve around what it means to be a girl. TikTok and Instagram are flooded with content around “I’m just a girl”, “girl maths” and “girl dinner”.

These trends depict a carefree, fun-loving version of femininity, portraying girls as obsessed with iced coffee, using quirky calculations to justify purchases or eating snack-like meals instead of balanced dinners. Charming and playful, these trends paint girlhood as a series of whimsical, harmless quirks. But is this depiction truly reflective of what it means to be a girl in this world?

Social media trends have certainly captured some wonderful aspects of being a girl. There is beauty in adorning oneself in makeup, choosing the perfect dress and enjoying the little things, like iced coffee or indulging in a fun, random meal. This is the lighter, more celebrated side of femininity, the side that’s all about self-expression, joy and the pursuit of aesthetic pleasure.

The carefree essence behind “I’m just a girl” is endearing because it allows women to revel in their experiences without taking themselves too seriously. It gives them the chance to celebrate their femininity and to own their “girly” side, which was often previously dismissed or mocked by mainstream culture.

However, this image of girlhood, while lovely, isn’t the whole story.

For every post about iced coffee or “girl dinner”, there is another side of girlhood that doesn’t make it to viral trends, a side filled with fear, vigilance and anxiety about survival. While girls celebrate the lighter aspects of life, they are often forced to live with the underlying reality that harm may be just around the corner. This is the side of girlhood that many are hesitant to talk about, but it is one that countless girls and women experience daily.

Girlhood is also clutching your keys in your hand, ready to use them as a weapon if you need to. Girlhood is not wearing that pretty dress in public because it might draw the wrong kind of attention. It’s always looking over your shoulder when you walk home, knowing that danger could lurk in the shadows.

Girlhood is crossing the street when someone follows too closely, speeding up your pace and calculating escape routes you shouldn’t need to – a study by ActionAid India in 2016 found that 79% of women in India faced some form of harassment or violence in public places.

Girlhood is the fear of being objectified and hyper-scrutinised before you even reach adulthood. It’s hearing that four women are raped every hour in India and in 95% of cases, it’s by someone they know.

As much as social media trends celebrate the “fun” of being a girl, the reality is that dressing up often comes with the concern of how others will perceive and potentially react to one’s appearance. It is exhausting to navigate a world that both encourages girls to look a certain way while also blaming them for the attention they receive.

The most brutal truth of girlhood is that violence isn’t just feared, it’s expected. From the moment a girl learns to walk alone, she’s taught that the world is a battlefield. Crimes like sexual harassment, assault and murder aren’t rare horrors, they’re our daily realities. One in every three women will face physical or sexual violence in her lifetime. One in three. Let that sink in. That’s not just a statistic; it’s a death sentence for dreams, security and peace of mind.

But the violence itself isn’t the final blow. It’s the aftermath that makes the pain unbearable – the gut-wrenching reality that those who commit these atrocities often walk away with nothing more than a slap on the wrist, if even that.

Turn on the news, and you’ll hear stories of girls and women brutalised, but how often do you hear about real justice being served? Rapists walk free, murderers roam the streets and for every one of them, there are countless more girls living in fear, knowing the system isn’t built to protect them.

Justice is a mirage, a distant concept that never quite materialises. Reporting an assault feels like standing before a firing squad, where your truth is picked apart, doubted and disbelieved.

Girlhood is not just wearing your fear like armour; it’s carrying the weight of an entire system that will fail you when you need it the most. It’s growing up knowing that even if you scream the loudest, the world will still cover its ears. This is the stark, horrific reality we rarely speak of, but it’s the one that defines what it truly means to be a girl.

How long can we keep pretending that girlhood is all fun and games when the unspoken reality is survival? What would it take for the world to finally acknowledge that behind every viral trend, there’s a girl carrying a burden far heavier than her iced coffee?

Yogyaa Gupta is a second-year English honours student at Jesus and Mary College, University of Delhi.

Gisèle Pelicot’s Case Could Make a Real Difference to Rape Survivors

Pelicot is an older survivor, victimised in her own home by her former husband and others she knew. This is far departed from the “stranger danger” stereotype and speaks to a harsh reality that most cases of sexual violence occur between people who know each other.

The mass rape trial that shook France is entering its final phase after ten weeks. But its implications for how we think about sexual violence and who experiences it will last much longer.

Gisèle Pelicot, 72, testified to her ex-husband’s repeated, long-term sexual abuse. Dominique Pelicot admitted in November 2020 to drugging his then wife over nearly a decade, and recruiting dozens of other men to rape her. There are 50 other men on trial beyond Pelicot’s ex-husband.

Gisèle Pelicot decided to waive her right to anonymity, which victims of sexual offences are entitled to in France. In doing so, she has opened the door on a tough conversation about rape in relationships and marriages. As this case exemplifies, the realities of sexual violence can be very different from what people consider to be “typical”.

The stereotypical rape (and other sexual offences broadly) involves a lone, young, attractive, female victim being attacked by a male stranger, at night, in a public place. The attacker may use a weapon, and the victim resists the attack physically.

Very few cases meet all of these criteria, and most cases are drastically different. For example, many survivors of rape may be male, older or disabled. Their attackers may be people they know and trust or may be charming and generous, and the attack may take place behind closed doors. For female victims, the most commonly reported perpetrator is an intimate partner (46%), and for male victims, it is an acquaintance (38%).

If a victim does not feel they meet the typical criteria for rape or sexual assault, they may minimise their own experience or not realise what has happened. This experience is especially prevalent in cases of marital or relational abuse and among male victims, where survivors may not realise their consent was important or needed for sex to occur.

As a result, non-stereotypical survivors are less likely to seek support following their victimisation and are sometimes more likely to experience negative outcomes in their physical, mental and sexual health.

Believing victims

Victims or cases that are different to the stereotype can often be discounted, experience shame, guilt and victim blaming from others, including the justice system.

Research has shown that non-stereotypical cases of sexual violence are more likely to be disbelieved or discounted, and that their cases are more likely to result in a not guilty verdict. Male, disabled, and older survivors of rape or sexual assault are less likely to report or disclose their experiences to the police or social circles because of a fear of not being believed or treated well.

Many victims, stereotypical or not, have negative experiences when seeking help or disclosing. These cases are less likely to be taken on by the police and victims face more barriers to accessing support through sources such as domestic abuse charities.

Having positive experiences when disclosing their experience, either socially or with the police, has been found to greatly improve victim outcomes and post-traumatic growth. It also makes them more likely to seek support and report future incidents. It is important to treat all survivors with the same degree of belief and respect, even if they do not fit your idea of what rape or sexual assault victims “should” be.

Anyone can be a victim of sexual assault. Gisèle Pelicot’s case, while extreme in its nature, is a landmark. She has become a feminist hero in France, and rightly so. Her willingness to speak openly about her experiences is already helping dispel stereotypes about who experiences domestic or sexual abuse, and how they are expected to act.

This conversation must continue, to increase the likelihood that more victims will access the support they need and, if they report or disclose, that the experience will be positive and supportive one.

Tadgh Tobin, PhD Candidate, Forensic Psychology, Nottingham Trent University.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

WISCOMP Saahas Awards: Activists From Kashmir, Assam Among Others Felicitated at Ceremony

The ceremony coincided with WISCOMP’s 25th anniversary of promoting South Asian women’s leadership in peace and security.

New Delhi: The India International Centre in New Delhi became a hub of inspiration on the evening of December 16 as Women in Security, Conflict Management and Peace (WISCOMP) – an initiative of the Foundation for Universal Responsibility of Tibetan spiritual leader Dalai Lama – hosted the Saahas Awards ceremony. The special occasion was meant to honour individuals and organisations from across South Asia, who work tirelessly with women to foster peace at the grassroots level in regions plagued by protracted conflict.

This edition was especially significant, coinciding with WISCOMP’s 25th anniversary of promoting South Asian women’s leadership in peace and security. The 10 awardees were chosen by an eminent jury and received a citation, a curated plaque crafted by a presidential awardee Shilp Guru, and a stole, symbolising their extraordinary contributions.

The Saahas Shakti Award celebrated four remarkable women for their courage and perseverance. An Afghan woman, who chose to remain anonymous, was recognised for her advocacy of gender equality and peace-building in Afghanistan. She has been a powerful voice for Afghan women and girls, influencing national and international policy.

Laxmi Chetri, a grassroots peace-builder from Assam, receiving her award at the Sahas award ceremony.

Laxmi Chetri is a grassroots peace-builder from Assam. Photo: By arrangement.

Laxmi Chetri, a grassroots peace-builder from Assam, empowers survivors of domestic violence and marginalised women in the Bodoland Territorial Region. Her innovative methods have helped nurture gender-just communities across northeast India.

Another anonymous recipient, a social activist from Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh, has tirelessly worked to empower refugee women and girls in camps, addressing gender-based violence and promoting social cohesion through livelihood and peace-building training.

Deepa Pawar, an activist from Maharashtra, India, was also honoured for her work with Nomadic and De-notified Tribes (NT-DNT) through the Anubhuti Trust. Her initiatives focus on education, leadership training and fostering gender justice in marginalized communities.

The Saahas-e-Azim Award highlighted individuals who have made extraordinary contributions to peace-building and gender advocacy. Saeeda Diep, founder of the Centre for Peace and Secular Studies in Pakistan, was recognised for her advocacy for religious minorities, especially Hindus, through cultural harmony and cross-border initiatives.

Ruchira Gupta, a globally renowned journalist and activist from India, was celebrated for her work against sex trafficking and gender-based violence as the founder of Apne Aap Women Worldwide.

Mossarat Qadeem, a peacebuilder and activist from Pakistan, was honoured for her pioneering work with PAIMAN Trust, where she empowers women and radicalised youth in conflict zones to foster resilience and reconciliation.

Patricia Mukhim, Editor of the Shillong Times, at the award ceremony. Photo: By arrangement.

Beena Sarwar, a journalist and peace advocate from Pakistan, was lauded for her efforts to bridge divides between India and Pakistan through initiatives like SAPAN and impactful documentaries addressing human rights and gender justice.

The Saahas Chetna Award was presented to Omar Hafiz from Srinagar, Kashmir. As a peace-builder and social activist, he works to empower marginalised communities, particularly Trans persons and other sexual minorities. Through his organisation, The STEAR, Omar creates safe spaces, challenges stereotypes and promotes youth-led initiatives for gender equality.

The Saahas Mashal Award was conferred on the Conflict Victim Women National Network (CVWNN) from Nepal. This grassroots organisation has been at the forefront of advocating for the rights of women affected by the country’s insurgency. By offering psychosocial support, legal aid, and leadership opportunities, CVWNN has played a critical role in fostering transitional justice and documenting the stories of survivors.

Finally, the Saahas Shreshtha Award: Shero of Courage was presented to Patricia Mukhim, Editor of The Shillong Times. Patricia’s fearless journalism and her advocacy for gender equality, communal harmony and marginalised communities in the conflict-ridden northeast were recognised at the ceremony. Through her initiative ‘Shillong We Care,’ she champions the cause of justice and peace.

Beena Sarwar’s acceptance speech at the ceremony. Photo: By arrangement

The evening unfolded with evocative images, poetry and prose, narrating the awardees’ poignant stories. Distinguished guests such as Ambassador Marisa Gerards of the Netherlands, Ambassador Philipp Ackermann of Germany, Shombi Sharp, UN Resident Coordinator for India, and Dr. Syeda Hameed, former member of the Planning Commission of India, felicitated the honourees alongside civil society leaders and academics.

WISCOMP director Meenakshi Gopinath said, “WISCOMP, through this effort, is bringing powerful voices that seek to build and nurture cultures of peace in South Asia and who have worked ceaselessly to transcend narrow borders and boundaries. In highlighting the experiences of those on the margins impacted by conflict and violence, this is a powerful message to keep hope alive through the work of these fearless, intrepid advocates – the Saahasis (the courageous).”

How Microfinance and Data Capture Pushed Tamil Nadu’s Most Disadvantaged Into Debt Distress

Debt distress is most severe in hamlets with Adi Dravidar, Arundatiyar, and Dalit Christian majority populations, and has only grown since COVID-19.

Debt to microfinance providers resulted in widespread distress in northeastern Tamil Nadu, where we conducted research through the time of the COVID-19 pandemic. We found that the situation was most severe in hamlets with Adi Dravidar, Arundatiyar, and Dalit Christian majority populations.

The study started in January 2020. By July 2022, several women from these historically oppressed caste groups told us about their spiralling debt to banks and non-banking financial companies (NBFCs) that issue microfinance loans. Microfinance providers issue collateral-free loans to sets of five women who function as joint liability groups, with each responsible for the dues of any member who defaults. Microfinance providers charged these women up to 24% interest per annum on the loans they issued. They continued to levy this interest through the state-mandated moratorium and for any delays beyond.

Debts had naturally grown to unmanageable levels. Many of the women we spoke to lamented the harsh consequences that they faced. Ambigai, an Adi Dravidar agricultural daily wage worker in an arid village called Manathur, told us: “The microfinance loan officers are threatening us, saying that they will call the police and file cases against us, that they will seal our houses and prevent us from entering them, that they will lock our Aadhaar cards. Not only will we be denied loans from other companies and banks, the rice and dal we get every month from the ration shop will also be blocked.”

She was not alone; hundreds of others who had taken these loans said a loan provider had warned them of similar penalties.

A locked house in the brick kiln. Photo: Chinar Shah.

Who borrows from microfinance providers?

Microfinance aims to empower women to start their own businesses. Yet, contrary to the portrayal of microfinance borrowers as entrepreneurs, many loan recipients are debt-bonded daily wage workers. In our study region, it was women in landless households from historically lowered castes who borrowed from microfinance providers. The majority of them either did agricultural daily wage work in the village or migrated to work in brick kilns and sugarcane fields (Figure 1). They used microfinance loans to meet their basic needs. The high interest that the women paid came not from profitable small businesses, but from their low and uncertain incomes, and often, from additional borrowing.

Our quantitative surveys with 406 households in 2021-2022 show that close to 70% of lowered caste households and 40% of women from intermediate caste households had taken microfinance loans, compared with only 16% of dominant caste households (Figure 2).

The borrowers used the loans to buy food and pay for healthcare, dedicating 51% and 29% of the loans in part to these uses. Almost half, 45%, of the loans were also used in part to pay off past debts (Figure 3). This proportion rises to almost 80% for women belonging to lowered caste groups.

Another indicator of financial stress is the debt-to-income ratio. It stood at 179% on average, and is higher for lowered caste and landless households, at 210% and 190%. This means that household debt was twice as much as annual income, while debts are short-term and must be repaid within the year for the most part. The disaggregation by gender is alarming. The debt service ratio is 13 for men, meaning that for every 100 they earn, they must repay 13, and for women it is 115. While women can call on men in the household for help to pay loans, they still bear the mental, physical, and sometimes sexual burden of repayment obligations.

How did the situation get so bad?

Women struggled to repay their loans, often borrowing from moneylenders to be able to do so. Even before the pandemic, the women we spoke to said that they faced sleepless nights as microfinance loan collection day approached. They said they would regularly borrow from moneylenders to make their repayments. They had no option but to pay on the stipulated day irrespective of circumstances. Women emphasised the extent of non-negotiability saying that loan officers would insist on repayment even if there was a death in the family. Amudha Mary, a Dalit Christian woman from Selvanagar told us: “They collect their money over the corpse, saying ‘first you pay this and then you cry’.”

When the COVID-19 pandemic began, microfinance operations came to a complete standstill in India. The state issued a mandate requiring lenders to offer a moratorium that allowed borrowers the option not to make loan repayments for five months. This offered relief in the short term. Some households reported eating better than before despite the lockdowns, since they weren’t required to make microfinance repayments. However, lenders were allowed to levy interest at the regular rate of 24% per annum on the principal outstanding on the loans. Debt thus multiplied during a period when incomes came to a standstill. At first, the Reserve Bank of India (RBI) had permitted microfinance providers to charge interest on the interest outstanding to them as well as on the principal. The Supreme Court later reversed this decision, and microfinance providers refunded the compound interest collected.

After the moratorium ended lenders rescheduled loans, but with opaque terms which were not shared with the borrowers. The borrowers said they had no idea how the amount due each month was being calculated or how many instalments they finally would have to pay. In the weeks before the second surge in COVID-19, when it had seemed like normalcy was returning in India, microfinance providers had started netting off loans. They offered larger loans to borrowers and deducted previous dues at the time of disbursal. Those who had availed themselves of this then discovered in a short while that they had much higher debt and microfinance providers did not offer a moratorium when lockdowns were enforced again.

Spiralling debt after the pandemic

Microfinance companies instructed loan officers to continue permitting delays on a case-by-case basis in order to prevent mass default. At the same time, they stressed to clients that interest would be levied for any delay. Women who had borrowed from microfinance providers explained that they had no choice but to agree to this. For instance, soon after the moratorium ended, Parvati, a Dalit woman from the colony in Pudur, said: “I told them to charge as much interest as they want, I will pay it later. I have no money at all now.” By the end of 2021, many borrowers to whom we spoke had missed some monthly payments. Borrowers who belonged to dominant and intermediate caste groups were more likely to own land and livestock, and they had been able to repay loans with income from cattle rearing and by borrowing from other sources.

Borrowers who belonged to lowered caste groups and landless households, who migrated to brick kilns and had missed work seasons for two years, were unable to pay their dues.

A woman shows her microfinance loan repayment record. Photo: Nithya Joseph.

By the end of 2021, for many women, the interest pending on unpaid loans exceeded the principal loan amount and ran into thousands of rupees, the equivalent of income they would earn over several months. In early 2022, Parvati said, “I had Rs 11,000 outstanding in March of 2020. The loan officer came yesterday and told me that now I owe Rs 19,000 in interest alone. There is no way at all for me to get so much money. I am sitting here waiting to find a way out.”

Loan officers from several microfinance institutions working in the area confirmed that their branches faced overwhelming defaults. The majority of their pre-pandemic clients had stopped paying dues despite repeated visits by them. Microfinance providers had also sub-contracted collections to companies who employed loan recovery agents. Loan officers and recovery agents reminded borrowers that companies could use the credit bureau infrastructures to blacklist any defaulters, barring them from all sources of formal credit. Many women told us that loan officers told them: “Don’t pay us, but remember you won’t be able to get a loan from a single other source.”

The gendered financial exclusion as a result of the credit bureau and JAM infrastructure linkage.

Indeed, the registration of loans on the credit bureau and the Jan Dhan-Aadhaar-Mobile (JAM) linkage have made it impossible for clients to negotiate relief without severe repercussions. Microfinance providers can blacklist defaulters using their biometric identification, barring them from all formal loans until they clear their dues, effectively holding them hostage till they are repaid. Microfinance providers had been instructed to stop collecting Aadhaar data in 2018 and to delete records of numbers they had previously collected. However, reports have shown how the credit bureaus to whom they had submitted the data were able to match women to their Aadhaar and send the data back to the microfinance providers. Some women borrowed at even higher interest rates from other sources to repay loans to microfinance providers; others returned to borrowing exclusively from moneylenders.

MFI automatic deduction notification by SMS. Photo: Chinar Shah

Meenakshi, a widowed female agricultural wage worker from a village called Pudur, stated: “A few months ago I tried to get a loan from another microfinance company, but they checked their system and said that they can’t lend to me until I repay the amount outstanding on my loan and come to them with an NOC [no-objection certificate]… I had to pay my daughter’s school fees, so I went to a money lender and borrowed from him at 4% interest per month.”

This cycle of gendered financial exclusion of the most vulnerable was ubiquitous.

Till the end of 2021, the management of these companies had instructed loan officers not to enforce the joint liability clause when women struggled to pay their own dues, knowing from past experience that this could trigger resistance. By mid-2022, they were using the credit bureau linkage to hold women collectively accountable. A woman called Vasuprabha explained microfinance companies club five to six groups together and call them a centre. These centres, comprising up to 30 members, were being held jointly liable. “Earlier they put OD (overdue) only for one person,” she said in April of 2022, “now they are putting centre-OD; if even one person hasn’t repaid, no one can borrow from any company.”

Supporting lending institutions and not the poor during the pandemic

Microfinance providers received the support of the state in the form of low interest loans and credit guarantees during the pandemic. Microfinance lenders were offered loans at the repo rate of 4% per year against securities. The government assured banks that they would cover up to 75% of any defaults on loans that microfinance providers had taken from them to on-lend to their clients. At the same time the Union government cash and food aid to poor households during the pandemic was paltry. Cash transfers of Rs 500 were offered to one woman in each household for the first three months of the pandemic, while incomes were disrupted for two years. Five kilograms of additional grain was provided free to poor households for the duration of the pandemic along with the subsidised food rations already being offered. Households had to borrow to meet all other basic needs – or went without them.

A member of our team conducts the Depleted by Debt quantitative survey. Photo: Chitra S.

Microfinance sector reforms dismantled protections for poor women

In March of 2022, the RBI announced a revised regulatory framework for the microfinance sector that incorporated many changes that microfinance providers had demanded. The RBI agreed to many of their requests, announcing a revised regulatory framework for the sector In March 2022. The changes included removal of the cap on interest rates, an increase in the lending limit, and permission for risk-based pricing. This effectively meant removal of protections put in place after the microfinance crises in 2009-2010 when aggressive lending had spurred a crisis of over-indebtedness. Following the reforms, the microfinance sector has seen rapid growth. The higher interest rates charged to clients made it easier for them to attract them. The raised lending limit meant that they could lend more to each client. Microfinance providers have expanded operations in new regions, which have higher poverty levels and more economic uncertainty. Following these changes, the RBI repeatedly expressed concern that microfinance providers are charging interest at usurious rates and raised alarm that the rapid growth is causing defaults and borrower distress. Recently, regulators have declared that the sector is now facing a crisis caused by the reforms.

Self-help group bank linkage for equitable financial inclusion

Another mode for issuing small loans to women, called the self-help group bank linkage programme, preceded microfinance lending in India. In this model, groups of women come together agreeing to pool savings each month and make loans to each other from the corpus of funds. They share the interest earned. When they are able to show effective functioning, banks sanction them loans at an interest rate of around 12% per annum. This is the same rate charged to other borrowers and half the rate of microfinance loans. Self-help groups continue to operate across the country; but this programme now competes with microfinance providers for bank funds. In India the majority of capital for microfinance loans come from public and private sector banks. Starting in 2011, banks have been permitted to count microfinance loans as part of their priority sector lending targets. Banks meet these targets by issuing loans to microfinance providers to on-lend to their clients, entering into co-lending agreements, or even acquiring MFIs. The higher interest charged to clients and higher collections efficiency from door-to-door visits by loan officers make microfinance loans more profitable than self-help group loans.

In our study region, as elsewhere, women from dominant caste households were much more likely to be members of self-help groups (Figure 4).

While the Union government aid promised to self-help groups at the onset of the pandemic was not provided to them, self-help group members were able to take loans from within the group and from the bank to invest in agriculture, livestock, and small enterprise. Self-help group members were generally more able to negotiate delays and concessions following the pandemic. This was both on internal loans and on loans from banks. Self-help group loans are not registered on the credit bureau, and bank managers have more flexibility in granting waivers. Adi Dravidar, Arundatiyar, and Dalit Christian women were much less likely to be members of self-help groups, and so most didn’t have the option of accessing this credit. Even the few self-help groups with lowered caste group members that did exist were being denied new loans from private sector banks after the pandemic began. This was because of defaults on microfinance loans by others in their joint liability group. The same banks engage in joint liability microfinance provision and self-help group lending, and they could use data from one part of their operations to make decisions about the other.

Microfinance borrowers doing construction wage work. Photo: Sowparnika G.

A pandemic-accelerated process

For the past 20 years, we have been exploring the profound transformation of village economies as members of the Observatory of Rural Dynamics and Social Inequalities in Southern India. We have followed the increasing expansion of financial markets. We have seen how debt compensates for insufficient and irregular incomes from wage labour as well as inadequate social transfers, subsidising private capital and compensating for a failing welfare state. The pandemic accelerated this process.

The state supported microfinance providers during the pandemic at the cost of poor women. The reforms to the microfinance sector enforced by the RBI in 2022 allowed changes that are counter to the interests of the women who take these loans. Microfinance loans have become more expensive, and the revised lending limit means there is more danger of pushing borrowers into unmanageable levels of debt. Strengthening mainstream bank lending to self-help groups would have been a way for policymakers to aid pandemic recovery through equitable financial inclusion. Even now, the priority for financial inclusion in India should be to include more landless women from lower caste groups, who are employed in precarious work, in the self-help group bank linkage programme. This would grant women access to lower interest loans that offer more flexibility in times of crisis and be less likely to cause debt distress.

Nithya Joseph, Venkatasubramanian Govindan, Isabelle Guérin, and Sébastien Michiels are scholars at the French Institute Pondicherry.

Women Lead the Charge Against Elephantiasis in Uttar Pradesh

As per the World Health Organization (WHO), 62% of the 657 million people requiring preventive drugs for lymphatic filariasis reside in India.

Lucknow and Kanpur Nagar, Uttar Pradesh: The windowsill of Manorama’s porch is dotted with bottles of Odomos, kachua chaap (mosquito coils) and sachets of mosquito-repellent oil. Her feet, now decorated with mehendi, once struggled to fit into the largest pair of slippers. “I know the cost of a mosquito bite better than anyone else,” says the 51-year-old resident of Madaripur village in Bakshi Ka Talab, Lucknow who uses one name.

Adjacent to her house is a shack turned into a small kirana (grocery store). Her neighbours have stopped buying from the family’s shop. Their fear is that if they touch her, they too will get what she is suffering from. Everyone in the neighbourhood suspected that the swelling and abscess in her leg was kodhiya rog (leprosy).

“Kisi ne filaria ka naam tak nahi suna tha (no one had ever heard of filariasis),” she says, gesturing to her right foot. Commonly known as “hathi pao” or elephantiasis in its advanced stages, lymphatic filariasis (LF) is a mosquito-borne parasitic disease that has been endemic to India since antiquity. The disease is a visible marker of “shame,” as it can cause extreme and unsightly swelling in the limbs, genitals or breasts, referred to as lymphoedema.

As per the World Health Organization (WHO), 62% of the 657 million people requiring preventive drugs for LF reside in India. The disease, while entirely preventable, becomes incurable upon progression and remains the second leading cause of physical disability worldwide.

Latest data from the National Centre for Vector Borne Disease Control (NCVBDC) reveal that of India’s 345 districts where the disease is endemic, 51 are located in Uttar Pradesh (UP).

The state, India’s most populous, reports a high lymphoedema case burden of 15% of all reported cases countrywide, and an even higher hydrocele case burden of 19%. There were 621,178 reported cases of lymphoedema in India in 2023, alongside 127,100 cases of hydrocele, as per official data cited by the NCVBDC.

Gendered suffering: A misinformed struggle for treatment

“‘The cost of being a woman is pain,’ said the doctor at a government hospital while jabbing me with a pain injection,” Manorama recalls with a bitter laugh. Her LF symptoms started with a swelling that appeared 15 years ago and spread to her entire leg, turning it red. Fevers, headaches, and vomiting followed.

Desperate for relief, she visited countless babas, public and private hospitals in Lucknow and Sitapur, and even a doctor in Nepal. One such healer, armed with a lemon and feathers, asked Manorama to prick her swollen limb with a needle. The wound caused a bacterial infection and oozed pus for days. Such ineffective ‘cures’ continued for nine years.

Currently, there is no drug available to treat patients or carriers with large worms in their lymphatic system, which damages it and leads to long-term morbidity, explains Shikha Malik, senior manager, Scientific Affairs (R&D) at Drugs for Neglected Diseases initiative (DNDi), a global non-profit organisation that develops and delivers treatments for neglected diseases.

An open drain in front of Manorama’s house forms the perfect breeding ground for mosquitoes and an Accredited Social Worker Activist (ASHA) worker’s message on the wall reads, “Put waste into the waste bin, sleep under the mosquito net.”

Around 13 km from Madaripur, a kutcha road with rain-swollen open drains leads to Bitto Devi’s house. Now 40, she was a mother of four when her leg first swelled over 16 years ago, hampering her daily tasks.

Like others in her village Sadhamau, she attempted local remedies to no avail. Bitto Devi’s limb pain forced her to quit working as a farm labourer, leaving her husband as the family’s sole earner. “I couldn’t sit or squat in the fields. Everything hurt. Who will cook? Who will feed my kids?”

A group of women and children passed by us, heading to the nearby field with water containers. Open defecation, Bitto Devi explains, increases the risk of mosquito bites, particularly for women who set out only around dusk for the sake of privacy. She says the nearby talab (pond) makes it difficult to control mosquitoes, especially during monsoons.

LF disproportionately affects marginalised communities due to poverty and improper sanitation, with women being highly susceptible due to their daily chores, both at home and in the fields, as these sites with filthy and stagnant pools of water provide mosquitoes the perfect habitat to breed and proliferate.

Bitto Devi, 40, from Sadhamau, shows the scars around her lymphoedema, worsened by years of local treatments. Her legs would ache and swell from a day spent squatting in the fields, eventually forcing her to quit work as a farm labourer.

Among the dozen women filaria patients we spoke to for this story, two experiences were common – their pain was consistently dismissed, both within their homes and in medical settings, and they noticed far more women in their vicinity suffering from “heavy feet” who rarely sought medical attention. The need for research into the gendered outcomes of LF is evident, to document the disproportionate healthcare barriers and social isolation faced by women.

“Women in rural India display diminished health-seeking behaviour, as they require the husband’s or family’s consent for treatment,” explains Bhupendra Tripathi, country lead, Neglected Tropical Diseases (NTD) Elimination, Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation (BMGF). “Since the problem is lifelong, the confidence to seek help reduces with each painful episode.”

Data from India’s National Family Health Survey 2019-21 reveal that 15.5% of rural women in India struggle to get permission for medical treatment compared to 9.4% in urban areas, while 24.7% of rural women struggle to get money for treatment versus 14.4% in urban areas.

Akhila Sivadas, executive director at the Centre for Advocacy & Research (CFAR), says that in the case of women, most complications caused by filariasis are unseen, as it robs the patient of mobility, dignity and agency in many aspects of their daily lives. The non-profit works towards improving community engagement in the LF programme and helps coordinate activities of the filaria patient network. “A shroud of cultural silence stigmatises and ostracises patients, or labels them as manhoos (cursed).” Sivadas notes that women are prone to more frequent misdiagnosis or indifference from healthcare providers.

Not just a patient or caregiver: Stakeholders in community outreach

In 2022 Manorama, fearing infection, warned the ASHA and CFAR coordinator at her doorstep, “Don’t touch my leg, you’ll get it,” when they urged her to seek treatment for LF at the community health centre.

Today, Manorama leads the Shri Gurukripa Filaria Eradication Committee, a patient support group in Madaripur, and is the one doing the advocacy. “Anyone I talk to, my eyes first fall on their feet.” So far, she has connected six patients to the network, helping address their fears and misconceptions around managing pain and arresting the progression of LF through daily hygiene practices and exercises, referred to as the Morbidity Management and Disability Prevention (MMDP) training for patients.

The Ministry of Health and Family Welfare’s current approach to LF elimination primarily relies on annual mass drug administration (MDA) campaigns in India’s high-burden districts including UP’s Lucknow and Kanpur, where community health workers administer door-to-door preventive medicines to curb the transmission of infection. MDA follows the Triple Drug therapy composed of IDA (ivermectin, diethylcarbamazine citrate (DEC), albendazole) or the Double Drug dose composed of DEC and albendazole.

For a disease with an extremely low threat perception, where the onset of symptoms can take over a decade to show, convincing healthy people to take the medicine every year is challenging.

“Tumka hai, tum khao! (You have it, you take the medicine)” – this was the most common response when Bitto Devi went from house to house along with ASHA bahus in the previous year’s MDA rounds. Her neighbour Ramkali (she uses one name), like many, refused to take the medicine, despite being diagnosed with LF.

Bitto Devi, part of the Filaria Patient Network for three years, feels some relief as many villagers, including her children, now take the preventive drugs. “Even if bitten, the worms will die, and the spread can be stopped,” she says. Bitto Devi regularly practises circular foot movements to reduce swelling – a technique she picked up during her time in the network.

In UP and Bihar, 16,382 patients across 21 districts are part of the Filaria Patient Network. Of these, 9,856 are women and 6,526 are men, according to data provided to IndiaSpend by CFAR, which coordinates the patient network’s activities in these states.

“Ideally, all health workers should be trained to manage lymphoedema, but they are not,” said Tripathi of the BMGF, discussing the necessity of a community-led approach. “Patients are looking for answers, and to be reassured” – a responsibility that women like Bitto Devi and Manorama now shoulder, armed with confidence and green parchas (information leaflets).

Manorama sits beside her family, all of whom, aged between 3 and 72 years, have completed their dose of preventive medicines as part of the MDA round conducted in Lucknow in February 2024.

Manorama has mastered the art of persuasion. Some men considered the medicines a ploy to stop their alcoholism. “Bhaiya, nothing will happen. You can still drink the quarter you take every night,” she assures them. She makes follow-up visits to check for side effects. Some refuse the medicine, unwilling to waste the paan masala in their mouths. She offered paan packets from her shop, saying, “Spit it out and take the medicine,” while kids would settle for toffees.

Low MDA compliance stems from a lack of behaviourally-informed interventions around how the community perceives the free drug administration. A person’s experience of benefit and harm (adverse side effects) and suspicions from previous mass health programmes can influence participation. A global study published in February 2022 mapped that when an MDA becomes coercive, communities could appear to comply publicly, but privately reject treatment.

49-year-old Rajeshwari Devi has been an ASHA worker since 2006. She has contributed to elimination programmes for several diseases including LF, leprosy and tuberculosis. She finds LF particularly tricky, as many patients hide their illness, and she believes that more health department staff should accompany ASHAs to boost medicine uptake.

In 2023, Rajeshwari Devi was elected from Sadhamau in Bakshi Ka Talab as the sabhasad (ward councillor) in the Nagar Panchayat elections, signalling better political backing for the community’s health concerns.

Rajeshwari Devi, the ward councillor of Sadhamau, with her husband Rohit Kumar, holding a pamphlet from her election campaign. She contested as an independent candidate, with the election symbol of “a farmer sifting grains.”

“Women trust us (ASHAs) more. Whether young or old, married or not, once introduced to the health system, they are more likely to stay connected and bring in more patients,” explains Rajeshwari Devi. She has been receiving more requests for fogging measures and clearing of stagnant water pools.

Kalyanpur: A closer reality of the MDA effort

A group of patients gather in a circle on the bright green porch of the ration vitaran kendra (fair-price shop), located in Bhisar village of Kalyanpur in Kanpur Nagar district.

Of Bhisar’s 1,146 residents, as per its last family survey, 22 LF cases have been identified, according to Munni Devi, the village’s sole ASHA worker. “Nobody talked about filaria until recently,” she said. “All the work was done only on paper, especially around medicine consumption.” Meanwhile, those waiting in line at the ration kendra appeared indifferent, focused solely on collecting their rations. When asked about the patient network or the disease, many were unaware of the patient network or its meetings and showed little interest in the discussion.

Ration distribution centre in Bhisar village, Kalyanpur where patients meet.

Munni Devi now follows a strict “dhava bol” (to attack into action) approach, asking villagers to take the medicine in front of the ASHA, with photos or videos documenting the process. “This method has now been mandated as part of our MDA guidelines to reduce the risk of misuse and wastage,” explains A.K. Singh, district malaria officer of Kanpur Nagar, as many previously took the medicine without actually consuming it.

Alok Ranjan, chief medical officer of Kanpur Nagar, notes that the community was cooperating in the district’s annual MDA campaign. “Acceptability is of the utmost importance and is very much desired. The triple-drug regimen is proving more effective than the previous two-drug therapy,” he says, expressing confidence in meeting the national LF elimination target set by the union government for 2027.

As per data accessed by IndiaSpend from the district malaria officer’s office in Kanpur Nagar, in Kalyanpur block, 75,285 of the 216,590 population had received the preventive drugs as of August 21, with the campaign continuing until September 2. By August 21, 33.7% (1.2 million people) of Kanpur Nagar’s 3.7 million residents had consumed the IDA medicines.

Munni Devi, the sole ASHA worker in Bhisar village, shows the photo of a village resident consuming the preventive medicines as part of the August 2024 MDA round in Kanpur.

Of the gathered patients, 60-year-old Mahendra Singh has a visibly swollen foot and admits to drinking alcohol despite a doctor’s advice to stop for proper treatment of his lymphoedema. Married at 16, Mahendra claims he doesn’t feel any pain, while his wife, Uma Singh, quietly reveals how he also suffers from “latakne wali” (scrotal hydrocele) that has swollen over seven times its normal size.

Uma, his primary caregiver, recalls his acute episodes of fever, medically referred to as adenolymphangitis. She forced him to take preventive medicines last year and attends patient meetings on his behalf, while Mahendra laughs off the seriousness of his condition stating, “I’m not a doctor, so I don’t know what caused this.”

Free-of-cost surgeries are to be made available for hydrocele patients at government health facilities, as per the Ministry of Health and Family Welfare’s Accelerated Plan for LF Elimination. Munni Devi explains that no hydrocele patient in Bhisar has come forward for surgery till date.

An ethnographic study from April 2009 in Odisha, a highly endemic region, documented the deep-rooted shame felt by hydrocele patients and their struggle to find brides due to sexual disability in their conjugal lives, an inability to work or even to walk properly. A study in rural West Bengal mapped how LF-affected women are often seen as less capable of working or caring for families, significantly lowering marriage prospects in endemic areas for both patients and their children.

Mahendra Singh, 60, says he feels no pain in his lymphoedema. His wife, Uma reveals he suffers from “latakne wali” (scrotal hydrocele) and regular acute attack fevers.

In Kanpur Nagar’s Hardev Singh ka Purwa, Akanksha Gautam, a 19-year-old student aspires to join the Indian Navy. When Akanksha’s diagnosis was confirmed, her father blamed her mother, Rekha Gautam, 48, who too is an LF patient, with hydrocele in her breast.

A mother of five, Rekha first noticed the lump in her right arm 22 years ago when pregnant with her eldest son. A doctor in Chakarpur prescribed painkillers but left it otherwise untreated. The swelling prevented her from breastfeeding her infant for months, as she later developed hydrocele.

“My mother-in-law was cooperative, or I don’t know what my fate would have been,” she says. “Those more intelligent than us did take the medicine,” says Rekha, her eyes hollow with over two decades of guilt and isolation. “You gave our daughter the disease, my sons are fine because they have my genes,” she quotes her husband.

Now part of the patient network, her daughter Akanksha passed the written Agniveer recruitment exam, although running distances as part of the physical test triggers her leg pain.

Women with LF endure severe psychological distress, with everyday tasks like cooking, menstruating or using an Indian toilet becoming painful experiences, explains Rajshree Das, senior director, NTD Programs at PCI India, a support partner to NVBDCP for social mobilisation in NTD elimination. “The spousal relationship suffers from routine taunts or in extreme cases, from domestic violence.”

Akanksha Gautam and her mother, Rekha Gautam, and CMO Office, Kanpur Nagar.

The psychosocial burden of mental illness associated with NTDs remains uncalculated, although chilling accounts have been recorded in several studies. In a study led by the Vector Control Research Centre, Puducherry, a young grade-4 lymphoedema patient said, “My husband and in-laws hate me now. They say I ruined their lives. I always think of committing suicide.” The findings assert the need for broadening the scope of MMDP programmes in India to include counselling and rehabilitation to manage the physical and social disabilities caused by LF.

Where does UP stand?

The WHO/NVBDCP guidelines report that consistent MDA coverage – reaching 65% of the total population or 85% of the target population for five consecutive years – can bring microfilariae (the parasite that causes LF) levels below 1%, eventually leading to disease elimination. Currently, 138 districts in India have stopped MDA activities after passing the Transmission Assessment Survey (TAS), indicating LF transmission to safe levels. Till 2024, only a single district in UP, Rampur, managed to clear all three TAS stages.

Researchers at the Regional Office of Health and Family Welfare, NVBDCP (Lucknow) and the NVBDCP Directorate, identified several gaps in UP’s MDA approach in an article published in the Journal of Communicable Diseases in October 2020, including lack of “quality training of drug administrators and supervisors,” an intrinsic pillar of any successful campaign.

The study found several irregularities in filariasis testing, including night blood surveys being conducted during the day, improper slide staining and the use of artificial colours instead of human blood. The study noted oversight to be “completely lacking at peripheral grass root level,” attributing blame to the supervisory tier responsible for monitoring the drug administrator.

A similar study in 2023 clarified that drug administrators such as ASHA and Anganwadi workers cannot be held accountable for these irregularities, since the only possible penalty was non-payment of their honorarium which, in any case, was unpaid in many areas. The study revealed low community acceptance of the LF programme, stemming from insufficient information, education and communication activities, which should ideally occur throughout the year rather than being limited to the MDA schedule.

In a recent boost of media attention around LF from the union health ministry, the Adityanath government announced plans to eliminate filariasis in UP by 2026, one year earlier than the national elimination target of 2027. “No priority was ever given to this disease or its patients,” said Sudesh Kumar, state entomologist at NVBDCP, UP. Optimistic about UP’s progress against LF, he said, “We’ve partnered with the community through Anganwadi workers, gram pradhans, schools, and kotedars (ration dealers). We will achieve the 2027 target.”

To address the gaps in effective control of mosquito-borne diseases (like dengue, malaria, chikungunya, kala-azar and brain fever), the UP government has started Sanchari Rog Niyantran Abhiyan (communicable disease control campaign) where health workers go door-to-door (Dastak Abhiyan) to create awareness, hold camps and rallies advocating cleanliness and ways for prevention of vector-borne diseases.

Malik of DNDi emphasised the need for development of macrofilaricidal/curative drugs to mop up residual foci (areas where the infection persists after an MDA) after disease transmission has been reduced by the MDA programme. “There is an urgent need for simple diagnostics for LF elimination that are adapted to regional differences,” said Malik.

“When I go to the fields to pluck vegetables, I still tie a plastic bag around my legs and apply mosquito-repellent oil,” says Manorama. Despite being a crucial pillar of awareness within her community, she continues her precautionary gesture: even if futile, it is born out of fear and habit. With currently no cure or vaccine, Manorama and her fellow patients can only manage the progression of LF.

A deep-rooted systemic mistrust and misconceptions around the disease remain to be confronted, to improve community participation and compliance. A painfully slow charge led by women, both health workers and patients like Manorama in many pockets of the country, are part of the national campaign to eliminate LF as a public health threat.

“The mosquito doesn’t care whether you’re a man or woman, everyone suffers.” Manorama declares: “Like polio, filariasis has to be eradicated from the soil of the country.”

This is the first of a two-part series on the threat of lymphatic filariasis. Reporting for this story was supported by the MSF-DNDi Grant on Neglected Tropical Diseases as part of the Without Borders Media Fellowship. The fellowship encourages independent, impartial and neutral reporting on health and humanitarian crises.

This article originally appeared on IndiaSpend, a data-driven, public-interest journalism non-profit.

How Dismantling Basic Rights and Freedoms are Shrinking the Space for Women Around the World

If the world can tolerate the Taliban’s abuses, Iraq’s restrictive laws and the US restrictions on abortion access, it reveals the fragility of women’s and girls’ rights globally.

From Iraq to Afghanistan to the US, basic freedoms for women are being eroded as governments start rolling back existing laws.

Just a few months ago a ban on Afghan women speaking in public was the latest measure introduced by the Taliban, who took back control of the country in 2021. From August the ban included singing, reading aloud, reciting poetry and even laughing outside their homes.

The Taliban’s ministry for the propagation of virtue and the prevention of vice, which implements one of the most radical interpretations of Islamic law, enforces these rules. They are part of a broader set of “vice and virtue” laws that severely restrict women’s rights and freedoms. Women are even banned from reading the Quran out loud to other women in public.

In the past three years in Afghanistan, the Taliban has taken away many basic rights from women who live there, so that there’s very little that they are allowed to do.

From 2021, the Taliban started introducing restrictions on girls receiving education, starting with a ban on coeducation and then a ban on girls attending secondary schools. This was followed by closing blind girls’ schools in 2023, and making it mandatory for girls in grades four to six (ages nine to 12) to cover their faces on the way to school.

Women can no longer attend universities or receive a degree certificate nationally, or follow midwifery or nursing training in the Kandahar region. Women are no longer allowed to be flight attendants, or to take a job outside the home. Women-run bakeries in the capital Kabul have now been banned. Women are mostly now unable to earn any money, or leave their homes. In April 2024, the Taliban in Helmand province told media outlets to even refrain from airing women’s voices.

Afghanistan is ranked last on the Women, Peace and Security Index and officials at the UN and elsewhere have called it “gender apartheid.” Afghan women are putting their lives on the line – facing surveillance, harassment, assault, arbitrary detention, torture and exile – to protest against the Taliban.

Many diplomats discuss how important it is to “engage” with the Taliban, yet this has not stopped the assault on women’s rights. When diplomats “engage,” they tend to focus on counter-terrorism, counternarcotics, business deals or hostage returns. Despite everything that has happened to Afghan women over a short period, critics suggest this rarely makes it onto diplomats’ priority list.

Iraq’s age of consent

Meanwhile, in Iraq, on August 4, an amendment to Iraq’s 1959 personal status law which would possibly lower the age of consent for marriage to nine years old from 18 (or 15 with permission from a judge and parents) was proposed by member of parliament Ra’ad al-Maliki and supported by conservative Shia factions in the government.

The law would have the potential of having matters of family law – such as marriage – adjudicated by religious authorities. This change could not only legalise child marriage but also strip women of rights related to divorce, child custody and inheritance.

Iraq already has a high rate of underage marriage, with 7% of girls married by 15 years old, and 28% married before the legal age of 18.

Unregistered marriages, not legally recorded in court but conducted through religious or tribal authorities, prevent girls from accessing civil rights, and leave women and girls vulnerable to exploitation, abuse and neglect, with limited options for seeking justice.

Many women’s groups have already mobilised against the law. But the amendment has passed its second reading in parliament. If introduced, it could pave the way for further modifications that deepen sectarian divides and move the country further away from a unified legal system. It would also be an especially troubling step backward in protecting children’s rights and gender equality.

Abortion rights in the US

Meanwhile, in the US, women’s access to abortion has been eroded significantly in the past few years. In late 2021, the US was officially labelled a backsliding democracy by an international thinktank.

Six months later, the landmark US Supreme Court ruling of Roe v Wade, which had safeguarded the constitutional right to abortion for nearly 50 years, was overturned. This led to a cascade of restrictive laws, with more than a quarter of US states enacting outright bans or severe restrictions on abortion.

Republican US congresswoman Marjorie Taylor Greene suggested, in May 2022, that women should stay celibate if they did not want to get pregnant. If only all women had that choice. In fact, in the US a sexual assault occurs every 68 seconds. One in every five American women has been the victim of an attempted or completed rape. From 2009-13, US Child Protective Services agencies found strong evidence indicating that 63,000 children per year were victims of sexual abuse.

These developments reflect a troubling pattern. There is evidence from Donald Trump’s first term that there could be further erosion of women’s rights in his second presidency. During his previous term there were significant attempts to weaken healthcare access, with his foreign policy reinstating the “global gag rule” restricting access to women’s reproductive healthcare worldwide via funding conditions.

Fragility of women’s rights

If the world can tolerate the Taliban’s abuses, Iraq’s restrictive laws and the US restrictions on abortion access, it reveals the fragility of women’s and girls’ rights globally, and how easy it is to take them away.

The UN agency, UN Women, says it could take another 286 years to close the global gender gaps in legal protections. No country has yet achieved gender equality, based on the gender pay gap, legal equality and social inequality levels. Women and girls continue to face discrimination in all corners of the world, and it seems to be getting worse. But despite everything women continue to resist.

Hind Elhinnawy is a senior lecturer at the School of Social Sciences, Nottingham Trent University.

This article is republished from The Conversation.