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

My crime in New Delhi? Love pollution.

I am guilty of love pollution. Write me up. Lock me away. Try and get me, coppers. You'll never catch me alive.

...

See, awhile ago, Saadia sent me an article about Delhi's newest form of pollution, fogging the air and putting the city's children at risk. No, it's not auto and truck exhaust. It's not the smelting or burning trash in the streets. No, my friends, this pollution is much more serious. It's the pollution of love, and that cannot be tolerated. I should know. I've been caught–and scorned–for it.

This article she sent stated that more and more young couples are kissing freely in the streets and parks. This, of course, is creating mayhem for the older generation in India.

I know how conservative Delhi is. Three people were arrested in June for kissing in public under a colonial “decency law” (Thanks a lot, Brits). Last Valentine’s Day, there was an effort to catch young people kissing on camera and put it youtube to publicly shame them.

When I walk down the street with my what-have-you holding hands we get stares. It could be because I look like a boy, or because we're so cute, but I know the real reason. We are billowing love smog in everyone's faces. We might as well be disrobing right there in front of the chow mein stand.

Anyway, here's what happened.

After living in my new apartment for all of 20 minutes the aforementioned what-have-you and I stepped out on the balcony for some fresh air. While enjoying our cigarettes, we did what we do all other moments of the day, and what I would argue all "lovers in love" do – we laced fingers and whispered into ears and touched lips.

That's right, I admit it, ok? We kissed. We were polluting, right there where any woman or child could see us… if that child looked five floors up from the street or was standing on a rooftop with a set of binoculars.

Well, this was too much for the gentleman who lives across from us and was apparently watching. As a concerned citizen and the purveyor of the moral high ground, he stepped in. So imagine me, eyes closed, pressed up against a certain young man, mind cloudy and heart fluttering, to hear scoffing and noises of disgust coming from the rooftop across the street.

Real pollution in New Delhi. The white is low-hanging pollution. 

The black is what the sky should look like.

I didn't turn to face him, ashamed that I had dirtied this pristine city with my affection. But my partner in crime turned to see him brushing us off and shaking his head. As one would do in any large city with neighbors, we more or less ignored him… until there was a knock on the door.

As it turns out, this Dudley Doright, this Boy Scout, this citizen watchman, called our landlord to tell on us. She sheepishly walked into my unlocked apartment and beckoned me in the hallway. Embarrassed as all get-out to be put in this situation, she told me a neighbor was complaining that I was acting "inappropriately.” In my defense, how inappropriate can I be when my boyfriend is wrapped up in a thick cotton sweater–sorry, jumper– and busy smoking?

Well, the situation has gone unresolved, for now. But Molly and Louis have a new sworn enemy. And Church Road in New Delhi now has someone to answer to if they are caught enjoying their lives and being in love. There's a new sheriff in town, and this town ain't big enough for the both of us.

I didn't feel great

So there I was, bouncing up and down in the back seat of this truck, "Donated by the UN" painted in the UN blue on the side, slowly headed to the Nepal-India border. The roads are marked with killer potholes and we plowed our way through all of them.

I was sweating and coughing in the back, dreading having to go through airport security, baggage check and the flight itself back to Delhi.

I should explain that the week before, I was staying with the remarkable JRS team in Nepal to get information for the website I'm working on. When they found out I was sick, they mobilized like a small army to get me food and a fan and anything I would need. I felt embarrassed at the level they wanted to take care of me. "It's just a cold," I said. "I have been flying so much lately, I probably picked something up on one of those cesspool airplanes."

Well, it wasn't until I was hunched over, crying in some Bhutanese refugee-doctor's office that I realized I was wrong. I didn't have a cold. I had some throat infection. And I realized that yet again, my determination to never visit the doctor had failed me.

He said I would be fine to travel the next day. It wouldn't be pleasant but I would survive.

So this is how I would up in these dire straights, bouncing up and down in the truck with a bag of apples on one side, and a bag of medicine written in some foreign language on the other side.

I only tell this story to explain how I came to draw the above picture. Because I don't want people to make fuss over me. I don't want people to know I'm sick or sad or overwhelmed. I always want to be helpful, cheerful one, who everyone can depend on. I'm the "yes gal" who will do whatever you need.

But sometimes, I just feel like melting into the floor.

As always, ending on a high note. Watch this video and you can't help but feel WONDERFUL.