Finding a Voice: Asian Women in Britain

1

The Prisoner

Amiya Rao wrote this poem in Bengali in 1960, she translated it into English for inclusion in this book.

Shut up tight in a cheap tin trunk

hidden under a mountain of musty mattresses and torn quilts

cast away in the kitchen’s sooty corner, it moans—the prisoner.

Its colour—still purple like the waves when the sea is angry

its border—still liquid gold like the sun in summer

its every fold still holds millions of petals, russet, which the

…autumn showers while passing.

‘Take me out, take me out, wear me,’ it cries

but none hears it cry, no one cares—

for she whose it was lies dying, giving birth to her ninth—

with luck a son maybe.

suddenly a miracle happens someone is stirred to her depth.

In one of her countless flittings

from the kitchen to the bedroom and then on to the lean-to

—where death is vying with birth—

she, the sixteen year old, puzzled weary dishevelled, pauses for breath

rests her tired head on the torn quilt

—when the miracle happens

The voice, soft yet persistent goes on pleading, ‘take me out,

take me out try me on …

my angry purple will go so well with your burnished brown,

my sunlit border flashes like lightning on your monsoon cloud hair

my russet petals will gather up your lissom body to their

hearts of flower

try me on once—on you, sixteen—you are sixteen only once—

…remember?

Her eyes begin to shine, her mind wanders with desire

her body is a flute quivering for the petal strokes of the wondrous

…lover.

‘Where is my rice?’shouts the father,‘everyday, must it be

late?’ he mutters

A miserable lowly, ill-paid clerk, shrivelled up untimely

with endless worries of making two ends meet.

‘Water, a little warm water,’ wails the dying woman in her lean-to.

‘We are hungry,’ shrieks the battalion of young sisters and

…brothers.

Waking up with a jolt, ashamed, repentant, the sixteen-year-old

bends down to scold the allurer; ‘look what you’ve done! Not

…now,

not now, not now, this is not the time, later may be—

not now—can’t you hear the cries’.

‘I can’, says the sari sighing, ‘I can—she too said the same –

‘some other time’—she who is lying in the lean-to, dying;

the time never came to her’.

Days pass—months—sixteen turns seventeen; tongues wag,

…neighbours sleepless

most keen to know what’s been happening, what’s wrong—

for ‘Our Leela was married and a mother of two at her age’.

So to set the wrong right the wretched father pulls his belt tight

and sells his house outright — ‘What else can I do? he asks

and finds no answer—for all know a daughter means disaster.

With the dowry money merrily jingling, the oily priest

mantras mumbling

with the deafening blowing of conch shells and burning of

incense

with the lavish pouring of melted butter, the holy fire

benignly glowing
—

the marriage is solemnised.

At an auspicious hour of a starlit night

the father gives the daughter away to a man he does not

know quite

knotted to a stranger—the husband to be—just behind him seven

seven times round the fire, modestly careful, seven small

steps takes she

bowing her veiled head, she accepts her destiny and becomes

his wife

…and enters new life.

In the father-in-law’s house under the eye of

the mother-in-law queen,

in the maddening jungle of inquisitive in-laws—sisters, brothers,

…cousins, easily umpteen—

days pass, become months, then years—round the clock

cook food, serve guests, wash plates, tend the old, nurse the sick

on the move from the kitchen to the bedroom to the lean-to

the flood is on, sons come, follow daughters—

some die, some remain

a little joy, more pain—

two slave chained together, whipped by life

no time to sit together, chat together, laugh together, know

each other

—no time to shed tears—

Why does the spring come, the cuckoo call and the trees sing

—Who hears?

‘You fool, the cuckoo calls for you to hear’, says the sari

‘the trees sing for you to laugh, not to fear’ says the sari

‘the spring has come to fill your heart’ says the sari

‘You fool, I am here for you to wear’ says the sari

‘have me on’, pleads the sari

‘my angry purple grown soft with age will hide your pallor well,

my border, now like the sun when the day is dying, will hide those

…streaks of grey

my russet petals yellow tinged with approach of winter will sigh

…for that lissom body

—but sighing will embrace you—with grace

take me out, wear me once, time is passing,’ sobs the sari.

Sighing the busy housewife says ‘I know what you say is true

yet I must rush, have to go, get ready, have a lot to do

My mother-in-law’s great Guru will be here in an hour or two

and with him will come his disciples, at least fifty-two.

So—not now, not now, some other time, later maybe,

you see I must fly, time is passing’.

‘I can see’ sobs the sari ‘time is passing’.

Days have passed become months become years

Alone in the darkening shadows sits she musing

—life is nothing only tears—

‘You are right,’ whispers the sari, all in tatters

—‘Life is nothing only tears.’

Amiya Rao

2

Introduction to the first edition

‘Women hold up half the sky’

People come to a new country, they start a new life; but the past they can’t forget it. They bring it with them -memories, attitudes and relationships.’ That is what Shahida, a woman from Lahore, told me. To give a full picture of this past is a daunting task, not within the scope of this book. But the attitudes and relationships which haunt the present – what are they and how did they dominate in the past? And which past?

The women in this book fall essentially into two groups – those who come directly from certain peasant societies of India, Pakistan and Bangladesh and those whose families migrated from the same peasant backgrounds first to East Africa and then to Britain. Women of the first group are in many ways utterly dissimilar from each other, differing in language, religion and customs (see Figures 1 and 2), but their roles in the peasant societies they have come from have a lot in common. It is these roles and how they were established that I shall describe in this chapter.

The Pakistani village of Mohinuddinpur was described to me by Shamim, a woman who now lives in Bradford.

Our whole village is made up of our Biradiri (brethren). All the people there are our brothers and sisters and relations so there are very few strangers around and women don’t have to wear Burkhas. Anyway, Burkha or no Burkha, one has to work, cutting the fodder, cleaning out the cowsheds, working in the fields at harvest time and then cooking and cleaning – and so many other tasks.

Shamim’s village is like many others from which Pakistani immigrants have come to Britain. They represent a peasant society, not, as the cliché has it, impenetrable or unchanging, but one extremely sensitive to internal change and outside influences, one where economic survival determines life styles and attitudes. Beneath the details of everyday life which Shamim describes is a feudal economy where small farmers scratch out a living from day to day, where one false step can mean falling into debt or mortgaging one’s land without hope of recovery and where one rebellious individual can place the entire economic unit, the joint family, at risk. The economy of these villages – in Mirpur, Jhelum or in Punjab across the Indo-Pakistan border (see Figures 1 & 2)—has been feudal for centuries. But it is a feudalism where inequalities and poverty have been intensified by British colonialism and which has in the last thirty-seven years since independence been in a state of flux caused by the varying stages of capitalism which reach out to it from the towns and cities of the Indian subcontinent. But colonialism, the tensions caused by a feudal economy’s reaction to capitalism and finally the effects of capitalism itself have all been imposed on a social structure which can be traced much further back. It is a structure essentially tribal in Pakistan, caste-based in India, which, though distorted several times over by a changing economy, retains some of its concepts (including that of the position of women) in their original form. The role of women is determined by this earlier social structure and the economic influences it faces.

How did successive economic regimes affect for instance, the lives of people in the villages of India? In the province of Punjab the most important economic change of the nineteenth century came with British colonialism. Before Punjab came under British rule in 1849 the peasants had had a right to farm the land but had not owned it, in the sense of being able to sell it off. The British established individual property rights and, with these rights, a new cash tax called land revenue. The peasants who cultivated the land became its owners and proprietors and a new law of inheritance was established by which when a man died his land was equally divided among his sons. The land revenue tax (at first as much as a third of a peasant’s gross yearly produce) had to be paid no matter how bad the harvest or how impoverished the family became as a result. In addition, the fact that it had to be paid in cash meant that the farmers had to sell their crop to the grain-dealer and then often enough borrow money from the money lender. In East Punjab these were usually the same man, almost invariably a Brahmin by caste. In this way the British created the situation of the small farmer, destroyed him by taxation, and raised on his back a new exploiting class, the money lenders. Because the money lenders were usually Brahmins, the effect of colonialism was to strengthen the caste system and place it firmly on a class basis.

The farms, small to start with and made even smaller as time went on by the system of inheritance, were extremely vulnerable to natural disaster. One small drought would be enough to drive a farming family into debt. Often enough the farmer ended up an owner-tenant with his land mortgaged to the money lender. After that there was little point in investing money or effort into the land because there was no chance of financial recovery. In this life of stress there was only one source of hope—having sons. A family with many sons could farm its land successfully without the burden of paying farm workers and could if necessary send a son to work in the nearest town or city to earn money to pay back debts or to buy more land. Without sons there was no hope of survival. Why sons and not daughters? Because the social structure in the villages was one based on patriarchal families, where the daughter is invariably given away in marriage, and where, because a woman’s chief economic role is as a producer of labour power (her sons) she is not considered of any real economic value before she is married.

This system, with its total sexual division of work, is mirrored (not caused) by the religious prescriptions for male and female roles. In both Islam and Hinduism, the woman’s role is domestic and decreed to be so. (For example, Manu the lawgiver recommended to Hindu society more than twelve centuries ago that ‘the chief function of a woman is to give birth, nurse those who are born and attend daily duties’: or ‘A girl must be married before she attains puberty and after she is married she must be kept busy looking after elders, cooking, cleaning, keeping accounts and saving money and of course doing Dharma.’) Naturally these rules were and still are interpreted for the economic convenience of society. In general, the work in the fields is done by men; women usually harvest only lighter crops, tend the animals and do the fatiguing work of cooking and carrying food to the fields for their men (in other words servicing labour). But more than anything else women produce the labour force—sons.

A man’s role is thus within his control. He has to work hard in the fields. He may fail as a result of natural disasters but no one can blame him for that. But a woman’s success or otherwise is not within her control. It is a matter of chance. She might not be able to produce the required number of sons or she might produce only daughters, or she might even be childless. She is encouraged by religion, mythology and custom to produce sons. A new daughter-in-law is greeted by her mother-in-law with the blessing ‘may you have seven sons’ or urged formally to ‘bathe in milk and you’ll have lots of sons’.

But what if she fails? Society responds with oppression, which it justifies by again invoking myths, scriptures (quoted or misquoted) and proverbs, some ancient and some only a few years old, thrown up by the needs of everyday life. A woman with many daughters and no sons is considered not only unfortunate but a carrier of misfortune. A woman with no children may well be regarded as a witch who must be ostracised and barred from celebrations. As a result, women themselves might well come to believe (incorrectly) that ‘it is written in the Guru Nanak’s Granth Sahib (the holy book of the Sikhs) that if you have bad Karma you have more girls than boys’.

The most important and uncontrollable factor in this peasant society occurs then in a woman’s body. The result is that religion and superstition centre their attention on the womb in an effort to explain away in terms of ‘morality’ what remains unexplained and unacceptable in terms of fact. Morality and religion open the door to oppression but in focusing so sharply on the woman’s role they make her the central symbol of the culture. She is the link between economic survival and the meaning of life, between economic security and emotional security. Her role is at the heart, the core of the civilisation. That is why she is kept in her place, if necessary by the most brutal oppression. If she rebels, the society itself may be overthrown.

This impossible linking role, this almost schizophrenic position which a woman has to defend is reflected over and over again at different times and in many aspects of her life. Her birth is almost invariably a disappointment to her family (because it is not a son who has been born). But soon these feelings may change to love and affection. She may often become very close to her parents, particularly her mother. However, when she gets married and goes to live in her parents-in-law’s home, her father and mother hardly ever visit her. If a Muslim, she usually marries a cousin who lives in the same village so at least the surroundings are familiar to her; but among Hindus and Sikhs the husband’s family nearly always live in a different village (because a woman must marry outside her kin). The bride’s parents are by tradition not permitted to accept the hospitality of her in-laws. In parts of Punjab they must not spend even a single night in their village. A Sikh woman from Jullunder, recently arrived in Britain, described what her feelings had been when her daughter got married six years ago. ‘Yes, I wished I could see her. I felt so sad but if I had gone there and seen her, how would I have felt? At home she was a queen, I never liked her to do the heavy jobs. There she is a slave. I know, because my life was the same. But to see her like that would hurt my feelings and hurt our Izzat (pride).’

This Izzat can also be translated as honour, self-respect and sometimes plain male ego. It is a quality basic to the emotional life of Punjab. It is essentially male, but it is women’s lives and actions which affect it most. A woman can have Izzat but it is not her own—it is her husband’s or father’s. Her Izzat is a reflection of the male pride of the family as a whole. Farda, a girl from Jhelum, told me:

If a man has a daughter she must be properly dressed, married at a reasonable age, taught to behave modestly in the presence of strangers. All these things are related to the Izzat of the girl – saving her Izzat (and through that their own Izzat) is perhaps the greatest responsibility of her parents or guardian. Because people don’t want this responsibility they often prefer having sons.

The joint or extended family is the peasant economic unit essential for survival. Izzat serves as its identity and gives it continuity and ‘worth’. Since the same concept occurs in an even stronger form among groups like the Pashtun who still retain their tribal structure, it is possible that this particular form of family identity originated in the strife- and tension-ridden relationships between tribes. It remains overshadowed by tension and the fear of violence and humiliation. (It is in this sense a quality which is likely to be inflamed in the racism of British society.)

When a girl gets married her parents are traditionally considered to be in a humiliating position vis a vis her parents-in-law. They forfeit the right to stand up against them. It is thus recognised that in her parents-in-law’s home a girl is completely vulnerable and any resentment against her parents may be taken out on her. As time passes the new bride is expected to take on the identity of her new family, making her subjugation complete. A woman belongs to the men in her own family, then to the men in her husband’s family, but never, never to herself. A Punjabi Hindu wedding song sung by women while the bride and groom walk seven times round the wedding fire expresses this quite clearly:

Here she takes the first round,

Her grandfather’s granddaughter.

Here she takes the second round,

Her maternal uncle’s maternal niece.

Here she takes the third round,

Her father’s elder brother’s daughter.

Here she takes the fourth round

Her father’s own daughter.

Here she takes the fifth round

Her father’s younger brother’s niece.

Here she takes the sixth round,

Her brother’s sister.

Here she takes the seventh round

And lo! the darling becomes alien.[1]

In peasant societies outside Punjab—in Gujarat, for example—Izzat does not exist in exactly the same form but the role of the woman remains almost identical. There too her parents who love her so much and suffer so much when she leaves their family feel indebted to her parents-in-law. There too she is never considered a significant contributor to the economic needs of the family (because labour power is not equated with real economic value) and there too, among the farming castes, her most important economic roles are the production and servicing of labour.

If the Hindus and Sikhs of Punjab have taken over the concept of lzzat from the Muslims, the Muslims and Sikhs have adopted the dowry system from the Hindus. In India, dowry taking has long been forbidden by law, but it persists strongly even in the cities. In the villages the amounts given as a dowry vary from area to area and community to community, but within any community they depend on the status of the bridegroom and his family. The relationship between the size of a dowry and status makes the dowry system easily adaptable to a class society, which means that as the economies of the villages move unevenly towards capitalism the dowry system remains of vital significance both as an essential accompaniment to and a reflection of this change. For parents, the dowry system is yet another reason why having daughters may mean financial ruin.

The dowry system has sometimes been considered as an effect of the sexual division of labour where, although women do some of the heaviest work (servicing labour and producing it), these roles are considered less important than those of men. Another obvious effect of this segregation of roles is the existence of sexual hierarchies within the community. These exist in all religious groups, Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs and Christians. According to Manu the ancient Hindu lawgiver whose work is said to date back to 500BC.[2] Girls must be in the custody of their father when they are children, women must be under the custody of their husband when married and under the custody of her son as widows. In no circumstances is she allowed to assert herself independently’. But in Indian and Pakistani joint families, things are not so simple. There is a rigid hierarchy, but it is not just a sexual hierarchy. A woman does, as she gets older, achieve a certain status in the joint family, particularly if she has had sons. Younger men must show their respect for her and obey her. She can treat younger women or women without status (like her husband’s widowed sisters) as she likes. When finally she becomes a mother- in-law she is entitled to tyrannise her daughter-in-law, reminding her that ‘I have suffered in my time now it is your turn’. To serve and suffer is considered not only a woman’s lot but right. If a woman is suffering things are as they should be.

But even in the most oppressive family and community women do have one consolation—each other’s company and affection. The warmth which sisters and sisters-in-law may show for one another can cushion a woman against the harshness of her life. The importance of this love and its physical demonstration is acknowledged in ceremonies and rituals all over the Indian subcontinent. In Muslim families, for example, it is the women in the family who are the chief mourners if someone dies. They are the ones, too, who celebrate a birth. In each case women from neighbouring and related families come to mourn or rejoice with them. The support they give may sometimes be formal, but it is never sterile or mechanical (as it often is in industrial societies). For example, when the forty days of mourning a death are over and the women in the family who have foregone food or combing their hair can start a normal life again, it is their female friends and sisters who cook for them and comb and oil their