The Girl Effect

Happy International Women's Day!

Live like a lotus, above the muddy water

I very rarely cry...well, at least publicly anyways. For me, crying is a sacred act; an act of pent up emotion and energy that has been suppressed for too long. While growing up, unlike most little girls who often shed tears over skinning their knees, I somehow convinced myself that crying was a sign of weakness. Stubborn even at a young age, I could effectively muster the will of my little body to silence the bubbling of pain that so often leaked through the eyes of others.

Forcing myself to maintain a tough shell was hardly healthy. In first grade, I vividly remember hobbling around a whole day with an angry, swollen, sprained ankle after falling off my unicycle because I was too embarrassed to tell anyone or ask for help. I remember hoping that someone would notice me and ask how I was, in which I would casually account for the injury and save face from myself. Or as an alternative, I daydreamed of being confronted by someone, perhaps a friend, teacher, my favorite librarian, or even a stranger, in which I would have to assuage their worries, minimizing the pain, and in essence playing the humble six-year-old martyr.


Suffering for the sake of principle - at least for my six-year-old self wanting to look tough so that she'd be chosen first to play soccer with the boys - is worth it. That's what a martyr does. It comes with the job description.

But suffering as the result of constructed societal conditions? Suffering imposed because of tradition? Suffering not because one accepts the consequences of choices, but rather suffering as an act of attrition?  

The last two weeks in class have been spent discussing the politics of global cultural practices that oppress or commit acts of violence against women. 

Willamette's Women and Gender Studies department sponsored another transnational feminist movie. Water, directed by Deepa Mehta, examines the plight of a group of Indian widows living a life of poverty at a temple in the holy city of Varanasi. Forced into the austere life of a widow at the age of 7, the film focuses on the life of Chiuya and her widow sisterhood of all ages. 

The minute women become widowed, they are stripped of their sexuality, class, and privilege. Women shave each others heads, wear only white clothing to detract attention, and eat bland food in order to demonstrate dedication to living a life without human desire. Considering that the rule of law fails to protect women from a state of vulnerability,  widows have three options: 1) sacrifice herself, so she too will become godly, 2) join an "ashram," or temple of widows, or 3) marry the younger brother of the deceased husband. All three options commodify women to the whims of men and their families who have no interest in feeding one more mouth after the wife's status becomes irrelevant upon her husband's untimely death.  As noted by Narayan, the young lawyer and follower of Gandhi, "Disguised as religion, it's just about money. One less mouth to feed. Four saris saved, one bed, and a corner is saved in the family home."  Failing to choose any of the options however places a widowed woman into an existential crisis, perpetuated by dependency, and in not having free choice, must choose between the lesser of all evils. Thus, the expectations imposed upon widows to live the rest of their lives in mourning makes female agency inextricably tied to the pressures of cultural and society. 

Chiuya, played by Sarala Kariyawasam

And so the viewer follows the colorful cast of women: 

Chiuya, the little widow whose youthful energy (and sometimes tantrums) begins to prod at the dutiful resignation of her widow-sisters, is the catalyst for change within the ashram. Her rape and her escape on Gandhi's train from the traditions that envelop Varanasi, ultimately depict how Chiuya's fate could easily become the fate of India's future.

Kalyani, the beautiful widow who is allowed to keep her hair to attract "solicitors" and becomes embroiled in a Romeo/Juliet style romance. Her lighter complexion and green eyes make her "beauty" an interesting point of commentary. Entrapped by both honor and an oppressive caste system that causes her to desperately search for alternatives, Kalyani ultimately takes her own life in an act of agency, refusing to participate in the system for any longer.


Shakuntala, the only educated widow of the group, her ability to read elevated her status and gave her more influence. Preserved for years by her faith in scripture, her world turns upside down with the realization of patriarchy-infused custom that has disabled her ability to create meaning in her life. "If self-fulfillment means detachment from wanting worldly desires, then no, I have not found it," she mused aloud. Her questioning of her faith reveals an interesting perspective of the politics of knowledge.


I made it through the whole movie without a tear. And then came the final scene: of Shakuntala shoving Chiuya into the arms of Gandhi's followers and watching the train, her opportunity for escape, disappear.

And then silent tears were streaming down my face.


Futility. Helplessness. Misery.
A country moving forward but leaving its women behind in ruin.

If there are no other arguments to support the "global sisterhood" other than the universality of the overall human condition, and the inherent interest of women in the affairs of other women, it would still be enough to find commonalities within the female experience, and enable those uncomfortable questions to be asked and those tears to cry together. Cultures and societies may be different, but there are some universal values that demand more than meek deference to the inability of cultural relativism to address the flaunting of human - and thus womens - rights violations.