A quick note about the rape

My friend Jess has been covering the backlash in India after a college student was brutally gang raped on a bus in New Delhi. The bus was crowded and no one stopped it.

Protests at India Gate have escalated by the day. 

After reading Andy's blog I realized I have something to say, too.

Some politicians are verbally attacking protestors rather than the assailants. On this list of sexist remarks made by Indian politicians, one politician opposed the long-pending Women's Bill saying it only benefits urban women, whom he called "par kati auratein" (women with short hair).

Another article came out to say that hundreds of politicians running in Indian elections have been charged with sexual assault, including 30 charged with rape.

Supposedly this is a country that takes care of its women. Supposedly, in Hindu tradition, women are revered and respected. I heard the same thing on the Rosebud Native American Reservation when I lived there. It seems that the places that laud their cultural traditions of respect for women are the same places where women are afraid to go outside.

For the past few months I have been interviewing women in Tamil Nadu and New Delhi about sexual and gender-based violence. I am writing stories about the lack of protection and care for refugee women. They all say the same thing, as do the men, "Refugee women are in the same boat as the Indian women–no one is safe." It's not that "this neighborhood is not safe for Chin women," it's "this neighborhood is not safe."

Delhi is a city where nearly every woman friend I know–Indian or foreign– has a story of being groped, grabbed, intimidated or worse.

Then I head up to Kashmir for a holiday. And the man who owns the houseboat simultaneously says that the men in Delhi are pigs and that the women in Kashmir are safer because they dress like modest Muslims. So, he was essentially saying Kashmiri men are no better, they just have less to lust over. Besides, a quick Googling of "rape statistics Kashmir" came up with this article that said of the 1,336 rape cases since 2006, only one rapist has been convicted. And one has to wonder why more women won't report it. Beyond reported rapes in Kashmir crime statistics are broken down into categories such as; cruelty by husband, molestation and dowery death…

Thank God my boyfriend stepped in and gave the usual spiel about educating young men and responsibility the older generation in the community should burden and blah blah blah or I might have lost it... and then I would have been just another short-haired, American woman making the argument.

But Kashmir is a single state. And this instance of the bus rape in Delhi is just one that happened that day. A woman is raped every 22 minutes in India.

Perhaps this is not my fight. Rarely do I identify as being a woman. I have not attended any protests. And yes, as an American I should take the plank of wood out of my eye before commenting on India. But since this blog is my soapbox, I can say this to all of the men out there making jokes, all of the politicians refusing to lift a finger, and every piece of shit who gropes or leers or scares a woman in the streets just for fun: Fuck you, you fucking fucks.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to walk to the metro alone. Hopefully I'll slip safely into the "women's only" car because women aren't safe in the presence of men. Incredible India indeed.

All photos by Jess Letch

Christmas in Kashmir Part One: Held Hostage

The houseboat was designed for a king... or perhaps a colonizer. The stove was warming our hands and toes until bedtime. As-salamu alaykums and Merry Christmases were shared throughout the week. But still, this Christmas was not picture-perfect. Set on Nageen Lake and at the foot of the Himalayas in Kashmir, think of this Christmas blog as an adventure story rather than a holiday story, with capture, intrigue, romance, escape, a clash of religions and -yes- Santa Clause.

The story starts as any tourist tragedy begins. We touched down in a conflict zone, their airport decked out in barbed wire and camouflage, ready to rock and roll at any minute. We, on the other hand, we neither rocking nor rolling seeing as how none of us had bothered to Google Srinagar, Kashmir, beforehand. So what happens? We – Louis, Andy and myself – are greeted by a pleasant Kashmiri tout referring to himself as "Fish and Chips," no joke. Our second tragic tourist mistake? We shook his hand and let him lead us to his car to show us some houseboats.


And the next four days became an epic game of trying to escape the clutches of his family, from which we had rented an epically beautiful houseboat. We were told we were getting a great deal. But wood for the fire in the freezing cold nights would cost extra. Plus a service charge. Private cars and drivers became more expensive. We couldn't get away for a free moment to even book a taxi. They refused to let us visit "Tourist Information" in town.

Being too cheap to pay for wood and too trapped to find our own, my better half and I shiver-cuddled under five blankets at night, wrapped in three or four pairs of socks, gloves, hats, and my phiran. The only thing to keep us warm, aside from our bulky clothing, was our loathing for the family holding us hostage in this 5-star boat. Ohhh, how difficult ones life becomes when the hot water runs out, no matter how many chandeliers there are hanging throughout the house.

I melted my scarf on the fire. Louis accidentally drank gasoline when reaching for a water bottle during a power cut. Andy was left without heat or a cuddle buddy. Raj had to sleep in the cold living room due to his snoring. And I took the coldest shower of my life.

 But in between the knocks on the windows from everyone in that household and their cousins, we had some beautiful moments. Andy going to jail three times at the beginning of Monopoly, only to come back to win the whole kit and caboodle. Louis stuffing Christmas stockings. Peas and potatoes for dinner. Mutton. Chicken drumsticks. More mutton. More chicken drumsticks. Photogtaphing around the old city. Getting death stares from old burka-ed women whilst I smoked a cigarette and held hands with a man in public. Watching the sun come up over the lake on our private boat ride to the floating markets.

Christmas Eve, Andy and I managed to sneak away from our captors under the cloak of darkness into a taxi to take us to midnight Mass at the only Catholic church in the city. Done up in birthday balloons, Christmas decorations and a giant crucifix, this was one Mass I'll never forget... and never fully remember since it was 90 percent celebrated in Hindi. One part that needed no translation was the fireworks. Yes, fireworks on the church grounds at 2 a.m. Merry Christmas.

But we still had to come home to the same crazy family.

It eventually came down to all of us scheming on Christmas Eve, figuring a way out. So there I was, sitting with my friend Andy, in the living room of this pleasant family, lying straight-faced to a pious Muslim man in front of his 90-year-old, mustachioed mother. And let me tell you, my friends, he wasn't buying any of what we were selling. His grandfather was also in the tourism biz, so squeezing us for money is a family tradition. And the conversation would not end, any time we asked the price of something they would mumble to each other in Kashmiri before giving us "the best price." Eventually, as they were all finishing their dinner, wrapped in their phirans, protected by their "winter wives," Andy just blurted out, "Our good friend has come into some money so he is paying for a driver and a night at a resort..." And that was the end of that. They didn't so much as look at us once more before we parted ways the next day.

As we walked down the narrow road Christmas morning, heading for a taxi stand, giant backpacks on our shoulders, stuffed elephant in my arms, we were all thankful to be free once again. But the next stage of our trip, we would also be trapped. This time not by a family, but by central heating and a bathtub...