Crimes against Women
Why does society hold the woman responsible for crimes done against her, asks SAJLA CHAWLA
Crime, especially crime that can lead to the death of someone, needs to be punished severely. Our society believes in this and adheres to it firmly. But this universal belief seems to take a strange twist when it comes to crimes against women. If it is a high profile case, the whole society follows it religiously. We all try and look for answers and try to ascribe blame somewhere or the other, often without even knowing the facts of the matter.
Something similar seems to be happening in the Nadia Torrado case in Goa, the Viveka Babaji case in Bombay, the Jessica Lal case in Delhi and in many, if not most cases where women have died. The fact of the matter is that a girl has died. And, if anyone has committed a crime, it should be duly punished.
But the deadweight of the paraphernalia of social norms that we all carry does not let the issue stay so simple. Especially when a woman is involved in a situation that is socially unacceptable, a crime against her acquires a totally different dimension. While the accused is condemned before being proven guilty, so is the woman victim. Her background, her character, her demeanour, her social status, her past relationships – everything – is brought out and placed on display.
This ancient barbaric social evil, of a witch hunt, does not seem to leave us. We love to ascribe blame, especially if it is a woman, and more so if there is a plausible link with her sexuality. It gives us all a huge sense of relief that we are not ourselves in that situation, and someone else is bearing the brunt of transgressing social, moral and patriarchal boundaries.
All over Europe, in the middle ages and as recently as in the 19th century, women who ‘strayed’ from the beaten track, indulged in something socially amoral, were educated or knew a lot about medicine, were extremely beautiful or had tremendous property or were too old to be productive, were branded as witches and burnt at the stake, in the town’s main square, as the crowds cheered; in a most inhuman and barbaric way. Women were often tortured to ‘exorcise’ the evil in them, and killed for crimes that were uncertain, dubious and never proved.
In India too, this practice still goes on in villages. Women who dare to be different are often hounded, branded as witches, driven out of their homes, or even killed. In our so-called educated and aware cities, we do not commit such barbaric acts. We do not kill. Instead, we figuratively ‘exhume’ the dead, dissect every minute juicy detail of their lives, and make it the highlight of social chatter and gossip, in drawing rooms and through the media.
We hear, and repeat, claims that the woman was of a loose character, that she was ‘using’ her femininity, or that she was from a dubious background. We all want to know how many affairs she had, how vain she was, or how she was ‘using’ her man.
When she was alive, none dared to air their moral considerations, even when the deed was being done right before their eyes. But once dead, we love to flog the carcass… The poignant question is, why?
Society has strange ways of dealing with the things that it finds problematic to put into slots. A woman who dies in a promiscuous relationship, is raped and/or murdered, or commits suicide, is always seen as having done something that is not supposed to happen in a civilised, moral and ethical society. Someone must be to blame; and who better than the woman herself?
Very self righteously, we conduct a social trial (nowadays, it’s a media trial as well), where we are all jurors and come to the conclusion that the woman was responsible for the crime done against her! It is easier for us that way, because it is extremely difficult to take to task the whole society that drove the woman to her death. Facing that kind of stark reality is not what most of us have the courage for. We cannot countenance that as part of society, we all – each and every one of us – have had a role to play in that young woman’s being raped, murdered or taking her own life. We want to sit back in our comfortable smugness and not have to question our socio-cultural institutions; we simply do not have the courage.
When a society reeks with crime, especially crimes against women, it is because of the way it has evolved, and we all have to bear a collective responsibility. The victim and the crime is just a symptom of the deep rooted disease rampant in our society. Suppressing a symptom or finding a scapegoat to blame is not going to cure the disease. We have to get to the root of it.
For this, society as a whole has to change. This has a gamut of ramifications – better legislation, its proper implementation, empowering women, and changing social attitudes. All this is a Herculean task. Obviously, it will take a long time.
But, as Mao Zedong said, “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” That step, which we can take today, is to stop turning the victim into a criminal. Whenever a crime is committed against a woman, it needs to be punished, just like a crime against any other person. The woman’s background, her past life, her attitudes or her morality have nothing to do with it. The trial is not about her character, it is about her death.
Be it Scarlet Keeling, the ‘German girl’ or Nadia Torrado… or any of those innumerable, unfortunate cases where women have made wrong choices; they need to be viewed objectively, as a crime like any other. If proven, it should be punished; without any social and media trial of the victim. It is foolish to proclaim that the woman invited it. No one invites assault, rape or murder.
There is a distinct difference between socially unacceptable behaviour and criminal acts. We cannot put both at par. We cannot club the victim with the criminal. If we keep apportioning blame to women for crimes done against them, those who commit such crimes will feel emboldened, and crimes against women will increase.
With what faith can a victimised woman go the police, the legal system, or before society itself, when she knows it is merely going to expose her to further ignominy and trauma? That is why so many women do not even report crimes done against them.
Let us stop judging them. Most are very young, some even children; possibly naïve, perhaps misdirected. Isn’t it more human to empathise than to judge? Who are we to judge at all? The song from the movie ‘Amir’ haunts my mind when someone dies an untimely and tragic death:
‘Ek lau is tarha kyun bujhi mere Maula?
Ek lau zindagi ki, Maula…’
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Match-Fixing for Dummies
By Francis Rodrigues
“Crack, Crack!” whacked the wet rubber truncheon. I screamed. “Shaddup!” shouted FBI agent Salvatore, “The sooner you confess, the better…” “But I can’t confess the bettor. I don’t know any,” I cried. I was sitting in handcuffs under a blinding light, being interrogated by agents Salvatore and Alvernaz, investigating the Paki cricket scandal.
Two of the most notorious officers attached to the precinct run by the calculating Chief of Police Capt Caculatti, Salvatore and Alvernaz were more popularly known in Astoria’s Goan community as ‘Alu’ and ‘Salu’. The cruel captain was labelled as ‘Capt Caculo’.
Every 10 minutes his guttural whinny came over the intercom: “Pigs,” he growled, “Has the donkey confessed yet?”
The snivelly Alu and Salu would take it out on me as they quavered back, “Nah sir, still lying sir.”
“We have information on your money-laundering,” thundered Alu. “Who did you meet at Disney World in Orlando last week?”
“The usual…” I ventured hesitantly, “…Donald Duck… Mickey”
“Aha,” yelled Salu, “The international money launderers!”
“They’re cartoon characters,” I protested, “What money would they wash?”
Alu whacked me. “Donald is actually the trump mafia guy, and Mickey is a former dorji turned dhobi.”
“Why should I care,” I ventured weakly, “what any of these characters do?”
“We ask the questions, not you!” shouted Salu, punching my nose.
“You went to Orlando from Dubai, just when Pakistan lost the Test to England by an innings. Did you meet Dawood there?”
“I do not know any Dawood, Mamood, Masood, or any dude,” I said, dodging a police baton aimed at my ribs. “They all sound like Pakistani losers!”
Alu kicked me. “Pakistan did lose the match, and Masood was one of the match fixers. You’d better confess now…” “I know nothing about cricket,” I protested.
“Aha,” roared Salu, twisting my neck in a half-Nelson, “Nobody mentioned the word ‘cricket’. So you know all about this wicket scandal, hanh?”
“Wicked scandal or not,” I protested, “I’m innocent!”
“Another lie,” snapped Alu triumphantly. “Your real name is John Silva, not… Innocent.”
“Pigs,” shrieked Capt Caculo’s intercom, “Have you broken the donkey yet?”
“Nah, sir!” stammered the rotten cops, “we’ve tried everything; water boarding like in Guantanamo, extracting two nails and four teeth… Still no luck.”
“Okay sewer dogs, you’re out,” yelled Caculo, “I’m sending in Inspector Valanka.”
Valanka from Sri Lanka was Brooklyn’s terror expert – she had never been known to fail. Terror-stricken, I shuddered.
Valanka swept in. Hotter than chilli, she was bursting out of a low-cut halter and skin-tight police-issue jeans.
“Dahling,” she oozed, “Aanda goonda, munda punda… Come to mummy and confess all. Who’s been a naughty little boy then?”
“Not me,” I managed to blurt out, tongue-tied, “The only match fixing I know about is the soirik of my cousin Gula to that toad Gugulo!”
“Shuddup!” spat Valanka, “What do you know of that innings loss by Pakistan… what about the sudden burst of runs, yet lost off the last three balls…?”
“The only burst of runs I know,” I said, “Is running to the loo after Cecil’s Calchi Codi. As for the Test, England won as Pakistan had… no balls!”
Valanka changed tack. She came over and sat on my lap.
“Now,” she whispered, “It’s going to be very hard…” I swooned.
“Pigs!” Capt Caculo’s whine rang out, “Release Silva! We found the match fixer. It was Mauvin Bobo all along.”
Back home, I cast a baleful eye at my giggling parrot Cocky. She spoke: “Pigs!” came Caculo’s nasal whine, “Release Silva…”
“Whaaaat?” I gasped, “You impersonated Caculo to release me?”
Cocky laughed so much, I feared she would burst.
The popat always knows.
[If you just arrived: Langoti ‘Long’ John Silva is a globe-trotting Goencar, always accompanied by his wise-cracking parrot Cocky]
