Taking Up Space

By Natasha Javed | Oct 9, 2022

It was both love and fear that dominated my childhood. On one hand, I was surrounded with adoration and care; on the other, I was expected to live a life in alignment with my gender. Between these two extremes, my world had a dull threat looming on its horizon—that of losing the trust of my kin, my friendships and relationships if I broke the silent codes.

As a young girl, I understood that my identity was fused with my relationships. And relationships ask for obedience. To police my body, my movement, my words—and perhaps, even my thoughts—were lessons I learnt as early as ABC.

However, there was an aberration to this environment. I also grew up around women who fought patriarchy and the men who wielded the power to control their lives.  I don’t know another life but that of putting up a fight in personal and public spaces to own my body, actions and decisions.

Almost four decades later, I am a woman who is angry. I am a woman who must first put up a fight for space to express her anger, before expressing anger itself. I am a woman whose honor and safety are — at the same time — central to her existence and as fragile as a leaf skeleton. I am a woman whose body is a battlefield of male ego and power.

I am a woman who is sexually objectified and then threatened for appearing immoral and promiscuous. I am a woman who must submit to authority or be shunned out of her closest and dearest relationships. I am a woman who can create life — a marvel — stolen by patriarchy under the guise of last names, male lineage and inheritance of property. I am a woman whose body is battered and raped and sliced into pieces, and she must explain her actions from her grave but the man will not. I am a woman who must cut her intelligence and presence short, so as not to crush a fragile ego in the room. I am a woman who must not speak of the injustice done to her or else, she will be ‘put in her place’ with threats,  violence and abuse. I am a woman who – even at the pinnacle of happiness and success — understands the risk and fragility of it all.

As a woman from Pakistan, I understand that there are layers of oppression today including class, gender, sexuality and race. A fight for feminism is a fight against the capitalist structure of society that solidifies class differences and discriminates against women, LQBTQI, religious and other minorities.

Another layer of oppression and violence is the alienation from our language, history and culture. I grew up in post-colonial Lahore in Punjab — the province that was sliced into two in 1947 and divided between India and Pakistan. The nationalism program in Pakistan, with ambitions of using religion to unify a people belonging to different languages and culture, together with a colonial hangover, fueled an identity crisis. Decades of hostility towards India has also failed in acting as a unifying force. The border separates Punjab from Punjab and us from ours. My generation’s alienation from our mother tongue Punjabi, and our fluency in English or Urdu, tells the story of how our history, language, literature, songs and culture have been taken away from us to impose English, the language of the oppressor, on us.

I am a case of bewilderment when I speak in the west. I am asked sometimes subtly and other times overtly, how is your English so good — a racist question South Asians are used to hearing. Behind the explanations to this question lies my truth: perhaps I wish my English wasn’t so good. The price we paid for it, as a people, is monumental.

Growing up, I was surrounded by women—my mother, aunts, cousins, grandmother, friends—who instantly melted the toxic heaviness of patriarchy. We could sit next to each other over cups of tea, leaving behind our daily worries, and taking pleasure in the time we had carved out of our lives, for ourselves. In that time and space, we shared our stories, both frivolous and consequential. We would break into belly-aching laughter, sometimes relating incidents that weighed heavy on the heart. We would find ways to support each other, and create this unparalleled space of solidarity and love. Over the years, I moved cities and continents, lived far from my family and friends, navigated my career, got married and had two beautiful children, Kabir and Heer. In every situation and experience, I have craved that unparalleled space of love and solidarity with a deep passion. It is with this spirit that I started dreaming of and believing in Kamli. 

For me, Kamli is a space that is safe. It is where we nurture bonds between women, celebrate diversity and learn from each other. Kamli is also a space where we decolonize feminism—where women share their stories in their own language and words and hold the pen that writes their own histories. Kamli is a space where we come together in resistance, power and love.

In her essay, ‘The Laugh of the Medusa’, Helene Cixuous says:

“I shall speak about women’s writing and about what it will do. Woman must write herself: must write about women and bring women to writing, from which they have been driven away as violently as from their bodies - for the same reasons, by the same law, with the same fatal goal. Woman must put herself into the text - as into the world and into history - by her own movement.”

Three years ago, I found Ve Keraan ay, written by Punjabi feminist poet and activist, Nasreen Anjum Bhatti. I was blown away by her poetry, by the world she creates and the ease with which women found themselves in it. I spent the coming days exploring Nasreen’s poems, and in awe of her clear and bold stance against class inequality and patriarchy. To me, Nasreen’s poetry is about the power of words and language that belongs to you, and a story that only a woman can tell. And she must.

Sharing Ve Keran ay below, as translated by Waqas Khawaja.

Ve, Keraan ay? Meri aandran naal munji unda

Hey, who are you weaving my bed with my insides?

Mera dil daawan aalay paasi rakhein te akhan sarhaanay bannay

Place my heart at the foot and my eyes at the head

Mei sarhannay te phul kadne nein

I have to embroider flowers on the pillow

Dharti di dhon neevin hovay

When the earth’s neck is bowed

te oday te aasman nahi chuka dayee da

You don’t load the sky on it

Baba, Koi keera kad

Baba, produce some serpent

Karoondia hovay ta meinu laraa dayeen

And if it is scaly, let it bite me

Mera ee ay na

It is mine afterall

Tu aapay ee te akhia si jay assi dhian nu dhaaj ich keeray ee dene aan,

You said it, didn’t you, that we give daughters snakes and serpents in dowry

Fair de day

So do it

Baba! dheean puttar ikko jayhe kuo nahi honday?

Baba, why are daughters and sons not equal and alike in worth

Je dhee vaddi hovay tan tussan tuk tuk ke puttar jidee kar lende o

If the daughter is older, you gnaw at her till she is reduced to the size of her brother

 Je puttar vada hovay, tan dhee fair pauni, fair adhi, fair khanni

If the son is older, then again the daughter, a quarter, half damaged

Baba ve Sooli te sap charhya….Haneri auni ay…Eelan nu ghabra painda ay

Baba, a serpent sits on the Cross, there will be a storm…vultures are getting restless

Dheean marjaniyan nu ghabra painda ay

Daughters afflicted ones are getting nervous

Jeeban di jhaalar aala frock paa ke mei kund tappee

In a frock of lace filigree made of tongues I leapt the wall

Meinu fair vi bolna na aaya

But I still could not learn to speak

Baba ve baba! Dharti di dhond te sanp charhaya, dab kharaba

Baba o Baba, a snake has settled on the earth’s neck, flecked and mottled

Veeran diyan dhonan te sanp charhya

It sits on the neck of my brothers too

Assi adian bhallian, Assi paunian changian

We are better of as daughters, better off one-fourth

Saadi dheri te peelu pakyan te vikdiyan vikdiyan bazare aa gayee-aan

When the peelu ripened on our debris We passed from hand to hand to the marketplace

chawanian chab chab ke saaday dund tutay

Our teeth broke biting quarters

Asan keray dudh nu royee-ay

What milk should we mourn

Dingian chawanian da Bhalla kaun paan denda ee

Who gives change for twisted quarters

Ay kaun ay mere bhajjay hoyay passay bhanan aala

Who is this that batters my broken sides

Ve merian akhan sarhanay bunnay rakhein

Hey, place my eyes on the pillow-side,

Mei sarhanay te phool kudne ne

I must embroider flowers on the pillow

Sujajian dian pooran vinhyan ais jahanay

The lovers’ lobes are drilled in this world

rungya ve! hath dho len de

O heedless one! Let me wash my hands

ik varhan mei hor apne pinday naalon tuk lavan

Let me nip one more year from my body

Tenu pata nahi aj mei jamate charhi aan

Don’t you know I have advanced today to the next form

Te naale saadi chitri ne bacha vi ditta ay

And, also, our brindle has goven birth to a calf

Tun kehna ee hun assi asi aithon tur jana een

You say we will go away from here now

Nahi te taahlian da bur jharan lag paye ga

Otherwise bloom from the sheeshams will begin to fall

Te raah dakkay jaan ge

And block all paths

Par sapan nu dharti vi raah de dendi ay

But even the earth allows the snakes to move about freely

Assan lungh jana ays dharti heth samaye ke! Hein Baba

We will get through tunneling our way, underground, right baba

Mere bache meinu mor dein ga na?

You will return me my kids, wont you?

Aunday varhay inhan nu moti dana nikalna-ee Te tu aakhna ay

In the coming year they will get chickenpox and you will say

Tiddi dal dohtaran

Grandchildren, greedy as locusts

dohtaran beyeman

Daughter’s children, deceitful, perfidious

Saday kuday hoyay sarhany le gayee

She took our embroidered pillows, and bed covers

Te naalay khes vi, te buklan vi te Mausam vi

Our blankets and chadors, even the season

Aunday varhay nun taap charhay te jaande nu korh pavay

A plague on the passing year, leprosy on the coming one

Mera aj meri talli te dhar de baba

Place my today on the palm of my hand, baba

Mera sach meri tallit e dhar de baba

Place my truth on the palm of my hand, Baba

Adhi raati fair tu maan nu aakhna-ee

In the middle of the night you will again tell mother

Daaj aalay andar son je dhee viahni oo tay

Go sleep inside where the dowry is, if you wish to get your daughter married

Te aapon meri buklay aa varna aye

And yourself jump under my blanket

Te mei adhi raat nahi hovan deni

But I will not let it be midnight

Aj meri dowan te sanp charhya ay

A snake sits on my neck tonight

- Natasha