“It’s a Girl”

 

I’d like to take this moment to say Happy Lohri to all who are celebrating it! Lohri is a mid-winter festival celebrated by Punjabis all over the world and in the region of Punjab, India. It falls on the day of the Winter Solstice and is traditionally celebrated with a bonfire. It is a festival of happiness, life and good food including: sarson da saag, radishes, millet flatbreads, peanuts/ground nuts and kheer. In some families, they celebrate the birth of a child (usually a boy) or a newly-wed couple. Increasingly, more and more families – both in the diaspora and parts of India – are now celebrating boys and girls during the festivities.

The tradition of only celebrating boys on Lohri has come under fire following the declining sex ratio in Punjab – it has been falling since 1991. With regards to the number of female foeticides taking place, the state of Punjab is ranked third. It hurts me that a state like Punjab, that  has a cultural and religious history of providing equality to its women in many areas of life (including the army) has become like this.

“It’s a girl.” To some parents these are the worst three words that they hear. This results in a large number of girls being abandoned by their families, left at orphanages, or worse, killed. This also means that there is a shortage of approximately 200 million girls worldwide.

“Mankind is One, should be recognised as such” Guru Gobind Singh-ji

Female foeticide and infanticide is so bad that in India prenatal sex determination is illegal. There are many reasons as to why certain families prefer to have a boy over a girl. They vary from finance, social and economic. Another is that sons are seen as an asset because they provide for a family, whilst a girl is a liability because she gets married into another family and no longer financially contributes to her own family. It is strange – and deeply uncomfortable – to think of children in terms of profit and loss, instead of the wonderful, lively and beautiful human beings who have a right to life.

It’s all very well and good to talk about female foeticide and infanticide in India, but it is also happening here to British Asians in the UK – it has reduced the female population by an estimated 1,500 and 4,700. It is difficult to pin down exact numbers because so many cases go unreported.

Many of us view female foeticide as a backward practice that happens in the villages of northwestern India and not here in the UK. So what is being done to tackle this?  Thankfully there are scores of individuals who are taking a stand against this practice. A charity, based in Punjab, called Unique Home for Girls. The charity looks after girls of all backgrounds who are orphaned, unwanted, unclaimed and/or declared as illegitimate by society. The trust aims to educate them and restore their human rights. Seeing a group like this fills my heart with joy and gives me hope that things may change.

I hope that one day, we will live in a world where everyone recognises and values the importance of girls. The first step starts with us: the way that we treat young girls ultimately determines the women that they grow up to become.

 

The Friendship Bracelet

The cold wind slapped my cheeks as I nervously sat on the bench by myself. I didn’t exactly fit in: frizzy haired nerd with glasses and a hard to pronounce name. I wrapped myself up in my red winter coat wishing that I could wrap my entire existence up in the same way. I watched the other children gleefully play, shriek and pull at each others’ jumpers immersed in their games. I’d tried to make friends with some of the girls but they came with a lot of demands. If Becky didn’t like English – none of us could like English. If Stephanie didn’t like History – none of us could like History. And all too often, I had nothing to talk about because I loved English and History. But I still tagged along and tried to mimic their behaviour: having a short summer dress, wearing large scrunchies in my hair, combing my unruly curls in an attempt to have smooth, sleek hair like theirs and begging my parents to let me join Brownies. They were having none of it.

Before I’d been confronted with the fine print of friendship, they’d already established little group secrets, friendship bracelets, multi coloured hair braids, sweetheart crushes, sleepover parties and private jokes that I wasn’t a part of. And in the years to come; that I would never be a part of.

One day we were outside having lunch when Becky said: “Why aren’t you allowed to come to sleepovers or Brownies?” I looked down at my hands and tried not to cry. They wouldn’t understand, but the little lion in me tried and I said: “My parents said it’s not in our culture.”  Becky exchanged looks with Stephanie who shrugged. Becky rolled her eyes and said: “So you’re not allowed to go to sleepovers or Brownies because of your culture?” Inside I breathed a sigh of relief: they had understood! I felt a little bubble of elation rise in my chest as I admired how understanding my friends were.  Oh how wrong I was. Becky laughed and Stephanie joined in. She leaned across the table, raised her eyebrows and with a twisted smile said: “Well then you, your parents and your culture are stupid. I’m glad I’m not you!”

Shrill, cruel girlish laughter echoed in my ears as I felt my face burn and my stomach tie itself into knots. I’d run into the toilets, locked myself in the nearest cubicle and began to cry silently. I tried to remove the red thread that my grandma had so lovingly tied to my wrist and tried to hide my khara inside my cardigan sleeve. More tears rushed down my cheeks until my head ached and my tear ducts had given up on me. I slowly wiped my tears away and examined the folds of the red thread and the cool shine of the khara on my wrist: I smiled. I didn’t need their friendship bracelets. I had had one all this time.

 

Mirage

Today’s post is inspired by a very recent conversation that I had and a result of observing social attitudes in Britain for over 10 years. I often wonder if things change for the better or if they have to become increasingly violent, devastating and evil before that change for good eventually occurs.

Living in a post 9/11 world has not only changed international relations, but drastically changed the way that millions of people view themselves with regards to ethnic identity both communally and individually. The words “Muslim” and “Islamophobia” are rampant and rife in our society. We are regularly shown images of crazed gunmen wearing turbans, wielding guns and proclaiming their hatred of the West in the deserts of faraway lands.

Ignorant people begin to make the flawed connection of brown skinned men with beards and turbans equating to terrorists, haters of the West and Al Qaeda members. Soon heart breaking stories of young Sikh men being battered to death because of their beards and dastaar reach our ears. Young Asian men with beards are being attacked without reason and young women have their hijabs ripped off in public because they’re being “oppressed” and not “being British.”  And the icing on the cake is when the media coldly says: “It was a case of mistaken identity.” Yet if a white man has a beard, he’s considered “cool” and doesn’t get stopped at Customs. And if a white woman covers her head, she’s deemed “cosmopolitan” and “appreciating culture.”

To not be who you are is a painful and draining experience

Upon seeing this, many people of ethnic descent begin to feel unsafe. They hide aspects of themselves in order to conform and fit into Western society. I remember soon after 9/11 how anything non-European was viewed with disgust. I kept my religion a secret, didn’t speak my mother tongue in public and did almost anything to not bring attention to my brown-ness. And it wasn’t just me, but many Asian kids I knew suddenly felt ashamed of their background, their name, families, their cultures, religions and heritages. To not be who you are is a painful and draining experience. It was a clash because every single day of my life I had been told: “Be proud you are Punjabi.” Yet the people around me had lumped all brown people into one ugly box and made sure that we felt and knew it.

There were days where I longed to correct an ignorant individual who made nasty comments about my culture and how everyone who wasn’t white should “go back to where they came from.” And when I look back on it, I really should have said something because I would have been standing up for a lot of people and not just myself. The day I felt confident enough to speak Punjabi with my grandmother in public, speak openly about my faith and my culture was the day that I felt like I had freed myself. I didn’t – and still don’t – care if I get given a dirty look for speaking my mother tongue in public. It forms a crucial part of who I am.

My friends hid who they were out of fear and because being brown was a bad thing. Til today, there are probably thousands of people who hide their roots because they are scared of being judged or attacked. The ironic thing is that we have nothing to be ashamed of and so much to be proud of. The actions of a few cannot and is not a good enough excuse for entire communities to be condemned.