A guide in Kerala tells me that four factors account for the high rate of violence against women in his state: God, alcoholism, the lottery and the nuclear family. It’s easy to fill in the blanks on three: after one day in Kerala I know that when I see twenty or more men gathered on a sidewalk, they are inevitably in front of a liquor store or a gaming shop. I am astonished at their visibility; alcohol and gaming must be more socially acceptable here than in any other state I’ve visited. The guide doesn’t have to tell me that both correlate highly with violence against women. And the third factor, the nuclear family, generates hidden violence inside those four walls everywhere in the world, be they brick, straw, wood, tarp or concrete. But what about God’s role? I neglect to ask, and get my answer when I least expect it . . .
I meet with Santosh Voz, executive director of the Janodaya Public Trust, an NGO she launched in 1987. India’s Elizabeth Fry, Santosh is famous for her outstanding work in the complex arena of women and justice – even more complex in patriarchal, male-dominant India. Janodaya offers a Women’s Helpline; a short-term Women’s Shelter for women experiencing dowry harassment; a long-term Women’s Hostel for battered women and their children; training programs in herbal beauty, city taxi driving, tailoring and child care for women who must leave their marriages; an on-call legal aid lawyer; a needle exchange; a HIV/AIDS intervention program; the only counseling program in the State for women in prison, and a residential school for these prisoners’ children. Oh yes, and a social worker on a motorbike who does rural outreach to fifty villages, five days a week. All services are free and government money only augments continuous fundraising.
Santosh is a supercharged dynamo, unequivocal and decisive with her staff, credible and convincing in her rapid-fire speech, totally focused on the work. I listen closely, ask few questions, write quickly. She wants to take another crack at a radical new program – would I like to hear? You bet. And so I learn about God’s role.
Santosh tells me about girl children who are forced into prostitution immediately following their first menses. These babies belong to a specific Hindu sect, the Devidasis, whose members live together in closed communities. There are no fathers in these communities, only lone-parent mothers. Most of the women support themselves and their families through the sex trade. In the course of their work they may give birth to eight or more children. Unlike many other mothers in India, they are not plagued by worry about finding a husband, amassing dowry or covering wedding expenses for their daughters. These girl children will be dedicated to the temple.
A daughter’s entry into puberty is a huge public affair; the entire village turns out to celebrate her first menses. How horrible that must that be for a young girl. The girl-child, dressed in wedding finery, is taken to the temple for her ‘marriage’ celebration, complete with flower garland and wedding ceremony. But instead of a husband, she gains a priest; instead of the black beads that would be tied around her neck by her husband, silver tinkles are tied around her ankles by temple workers. And so she is ‘married’. Dedicated to the temple.
News of her impending ‘marriage’ travels, and men external to the community come from all over the area to watch the celebrations, and later bid for her virginity. She is sold for sex to the highest bidder. The money goes to her mother, who makes a temple donation. During the time the girl-child is still ‘fresh’ other men come to pay and use her; more money for the mother, more temple donations. When she is no longer an almost-virginal child, other men come – businessmen from Hyderabad, from Mumbai, from the large cities of India; she is purchased once more and leaves her home forever. To a life of forced prostitution.
Aghast, I blurt out, ‘Why do the mothers allow this practice?’ Because it is sanctioned and sanctified by temple priests. It is culturally and religiously ingrained in a small portion of the Hindu population.
How, I wonder, can the wives sit mute at home while their husbands engage in such brutality and exploitation of girl children? There are various reasons, all equally awful. First, only the very rich can participate in the purchase of these girl children. Such evidence of wealth actually raises the status of the man and his family within their caste. And speaking of status, a man must be an especially virile husband if one sexual partner is not enough, yes? Second, the men are not marrying these children, so there is no fear of those nasty court proceedings brought on by a love match, no spectre of near-poverty post divorce. And as far as a mother’s fear goes, it’s not their girl-children being used so cruelly, now is it?
Santosh moves on to tell me her plan: She will approach mothers in the Devidasis communities close to Bangalore, discuss education for their girl children, and offer high-quality schooling. She will obtain permission to bring 5 girl-children, 8 years and above, out of each of the10 closed communities. Teachers will educate all 50 girl children in a Bangalore residential school, and eventually send informed young women back to live with their families. Empowered through the regular curriculum and a critical analysis of the practice of temple dedication, these young women will become catalysts for change in the community. As well, the children will act as agents of transformation for their mothers each time they go home for visits. Santosh tells me this transformational change happens all the time when prisoners’ kids are taken to the jails to visit their mothers.
At the same time community workers already established in these villages, assisting with self-help groups, micro economic financing, health care education and various employment training programs, will gradually begin to sensitize the community to the evils of temple dedication.
And, in the end, parents will refuse to dedicate their girl children. They will refuse to perpetuate the existing social norms. Other parents in other communities will hear and begin to question the practice. Eventually temple dedication will be a historical fact, not a current evil.
What will be the roadblocks, I wonder? Santosh tells me about her first attempt to end the dedication of girl children. She decided to work directly in several adjacent villages. First, she went to the police, requested a Police Outpost. Nonsense, they replied, why should the police provide an Outpost just for Janodaya? She persevered, and without police protection she and other Janodaya workers went into the villages, directly contesting temple dedications. Their lives were threatened; they were told to vanish or risk kidnapping, physical attacks, death by shooting. Santosh went back to the police - they refused to act. This happens in all too many cases: child prostitution, dowry harassment, other forms of violence against women, suspicious deaths – homicide disguised as suicide. Feminism has yet to make a stand in India’s police precincts. Naturally Santosh withdrew the workers, but she didn’t stop planning, and now she is ready to intervene again. I am so incredibly impressed with this woman.
As I walk away from the office, I wonder if any of my Canadian friends would want to help with this innovative social justice project? Santosh told me she has no specific money to move her plan forward, but knows she will manage one way or another. I realize I’m stunned by the enormity of the problem, the intransigence of the police, the risks involved for staff. Maybe I’m just overwhelmed, thinking with my heart. Or maybe not. In any event . . .
If you want to support a brand new intervention in India; if you want help in the eventual end of a centuries-old practice; if you want to direct some money to a process that will create a safe space for some girl-children headed for temple dedication, this is Janodaya’s email address: janodaya@bgl.vsnl.net.in
I didn’t tell Santosh that I might make this website pitch. I didn’t tell her, of course, because I don’t want to raise any expectations, nor do I want to put my friends on the spot. And since you would email her directly, I’ll never know if you decided to help. Or decided you couldn’t right now. But if you do email her for information on how to transfer money to the Janodaya Trust a/c in India, Santosh will want some context, so maybe mention this story.
Just know that a bit of money goes on forever over here. For example, Rs. 2800 dresses two little girls in school uniforms with one full change of clothes, buys all their books, and sends them to the government school for one year. Rs. 2800 is $70 Canadian when the rupee is low; $80 when it is high.
That’s it. I promise I’ll never pitch you again; this one hit me hard.
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