ktravula – a travelogue!

Browsing the archives for the Opinion category.

India – Gender and Human Dignity

Here’s a guest post by a friend and colleague Catherine Xavier. In this write-up, she talks about the less talked-about “third gender” in India – a class of people maltreated and discriminated against on the basis of their sexual orientation. Read it up to see why they do not fall into the class of homosexuals or lesbians or transgenders, but a different category of men raised or conditioned from birth to behave like women. There is a Youtube video interview with one of them here, for anyone interested in further information on the matter.

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The India society is patriarchal to the core – simply stated, men rule the roost. The society in general seems to have resigned to this, while women have been forced to reconcile to be the ‘fairer sex’. However, we are a society that worships women. Our goddesses of strength, wisdom, love, and power, are all personified as women. I cannot understand that irony here; India has one of the highest rates of female infanticide and dowry-deaths, while the society and the government claim to vigorously promote the girl-child and women’s emancipation. How can a society that boasts of a rich, ancient, and varied culture simultaneously glorify and dehumanize women – how can mythical womanhood be celebrated and worshiped in the form of a goddess at the temple, while helpless women are subject to eve-teasing, torture, abuse, discrimination, and unspeakable indignity. I was taught as a young girl that there is greater modesty in ignoring the lewd comments from your male counterparts, as it saves a woman a lot of shame and disgrace – yes, the same society that celebrates week-long festivities in honor of women deities, while sublimely accepting its men resorting to eve-teasing, ogling, and trying to grab women’s breasts in crowded public places.

I could write a lot about the Indian mentality of gender discrimination and the stifling of individual feminine freedom. However, I choose to focus on that part of Indian sexuality and gender that is not broached by most Bollywood movies or Indian novels (You can find this on the BBC though). The simple truth is that the Indian society recognizes only two types of genders – male and female. We prefer to be oblivious to the third gender classification: the hijras or eunuchs.

Hijras are physiological males with feminine instincts. They adopt feminine identities and don feminine attires. The Indian society describes the hijras as ‘neither men nor women’ thereby, making them the most ostracized section of our society. Young boys with feminine instincts are a shame to their family and to the society. Most times, the family is not supportive because they fear social boycott; they abandon these young men who are forced to live with people like them, thought they are not their kith and kin. I doubt if our society recognizes the trauma that the family and the young man go through in this entire ordeal of family bonding, wanting to belong, social belonging, and social abandonment. Most times, the hijras are castrated and they earn a living by working as sex slaves, and by performing dances at the weddings and birth ceremonies of the so-called cream of our society.

It is so strange that though the hijras have a recorded history of living in groups in India since the 17 century, the Indian constitution does not guarantee them any rights – it does not even provide validity to the marriage of hijras. Ironically, the Hindu religious texts in India have several references to them since ancient times; while our society has never accorded them any respect. I am sure that in the US, there is greater privacy, legal protection, and respect for human dignity of the parents and the young man involved. In India they are a joke, everyone laughs at them, pokes fun at them, and metes out violence and abuse to them – worse still, Bollywood portrays them as comic relief. They are no special schools for them, and regular boys/girls schools do not admit hijras – hence 95-96% of hijras are uneducated; carrying with them all the evils of illiteracy – who is to blame???

I just discovered today in a conversation with a friend that the Hijras are becoming a more and more organized community in India –the faint sign of conviction of their part and an utter failure of social justice on the part of the Indian society. I was happy to hear that hijras celebrate communal fellowship and festivities every year at a temple in Villupuram district of Tamilnadu in India, and this festivity encompasses their marriage to a god ( because mortals are far too superior for the hijras, I guess), and to discuss their hijra rights. I would be very curious to see how they react – a caste of India that has endured the most unspeakable indignity and shame – they sure have a right to the heights of indignation towards a society that simply fails to acknowledge and respect human dignity. I wish a goddess could appear overnight to shed wisdom on the males and females of our society, while soothing the scars of abuse and shame endured by the hijras in India.

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Catherine is an MBA holder from Southern Illinois University Edwardsville, and a PhD student in the University of Arkansas.

Notes on Obscurity

by Benson Eluma

Sister Mustard died someplace

Mount Ebola, I think, in Africa.

They planted a mine on the headstone

For a curious little boy to play with.

Kaboom! and his lost limbs made

A weeklong presence on international news.

Sister Mustard turned

And smiled in her death…

The ants worked hard in the sun

Following the ancient wisdom.

But this year the rains did not fall; they waxed

Lyrical, Hard Rock melting sand-home and barn.

Afterwards, camera crews rushed

To scoop water; their

Precision instruments detailing

The wreckage to the last microscopic fractal…

The poetaster wrote his dying song

After so many years of ruing the ignominy

Of his verse, the evil recalcitrance of his stylus.

He sent it out, a warning to others trying the impossible.

But the critics, hard up for new conundrums,

Overturned every stone;

They scoured every cave

To lay laurels at his unmarked grave…

And Daodu, born on the first day

In the Year of Jubilee, a complete set of teeth

Fortifying his infant gums,

Died a plenipotentiary with 300 monuments.

And the worms went to work on the annals.

And floods ravaged the city year after year.

And finally a generation arose in whose memory

Daodu’s name, undecipherable, was a dead talisman…

Used by permission.

IBB and the Nigerian Story

A guest post by Adeleke Adesanya

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Nigerians hate to love IBB. For those who don’t know who IBB is, it is the nickname for former military ruler, Babangida. When you have learnt to love to hate someone for almost three decades, it kind of gets confusing. You hate to love him. You love to hate him. And in that confusion, you get a classically defined, part sadomasochist, part Stockholm syndrome relationship. But what is this hold that Babangida has on Nigerians? Or perhaps, what is the Nigerian fixation with this former dictator? Permit me to take you on a journey in history.

Nigeria in early 1993 was a very complicated society, not as simple and straight forward as the Press like to think it is, nowadays. On one hand, there was a dictator who had promised several times to hand over power. On the other were pliant and corruptible politicians, willing to do anything for power. If the truth be told, many Nigerians agreed with Babangida’s policy of screening his successors. The political class was such a rotten lot that in exasperation, he (Babangida) declared, ‘I don’t know who will succeed me but I know who will not’. The political waters were so mucky, having been sullied by the latter day politicians, mostly opportunists who had made a fortune fornicating with the military, that those who know better, like the late Bola Ige , decided to ‘siddon look’ and abstain from partisan politics.

People forget that the military once decreed political parties into existence and these opportunists still jostled to contest, confident that once they entered office, the financial outlay incurred in fixing the elections would be readily recouped. They forget that Babangida commissioned the manifesto for both PDP and NRC, under which elections were held. Those were the heady days of sandwich politics when loafs of bread were stuffed with twenty naira notes at party conventions. After one election, it was said that the rigging was free and fair. If after their trysts together, the politicians had lost the respect of even their benefactor, Babangida, the ordinary Nigerian didn’t really care.

At a stage, a close associate of IBB and populist philanthropist entered the political equation. After apparently seeking Babangida’s blessing, he deployed the best political campaign money could buy, the kind we had not seen before and ever since. But there were doubts along the way that the military establishment will not change their mind. I recall that some days before the election, Beko Ransome-Kuti was, in a radio interview, expressed his conviction that the military was not ready to handover, that the elections would be cancelled. It then it dawned on me that it was all a nullity. There was no logical reason why the elections should hold. If IBB was a logical person, why should he change his mind then? What was the fundamental difference between Abiola and the others except that he had more money and loved reciting proverbs?

On the Election Day, I did not vote. I sat in my room and read Campaign for Democracy (CD) literature. I had a bet with a friend that the election would be cancelled. He never paid but I enjoy to this day, the satisfaction that I did not vote that day. It was much later that I learnt that the June 12 elections were also boycotted by MOSOP, triggering events that would lead to the death of the Ogoni 13 and later the Ogoni 9, including Ken Saro Wiwa. In between the many waves of crises that engulfed Nigeria, Babangida was able to engineer a political transition that ensured that for the next seventeen years, he and the military power block has chosen their successors, with little opposition from any section of the Nigerian society. These are the facts. Whatever opposition to the military power group has effectively crumbled over the years and Babangida is right to say there is no viable alternative it.

The sad fact is that, in the experience of ordinary Nigerians, the era of Babangida has become the good old days. Infrastructure has become worse, the standard of living has fallen, and little progress has been made in giving marginalized communities a sense of belonging. The energy sector is nearly comatose. To many, Nigeria today is clearly worse off than in Babangida times. Now, we could do the easy thing and blame it on him but frankly, should there not be a statute of limitations on the blame game? It has been 17 years! In that time, several civilian governors have proven that when it comes to embezzling, they could easily outdo the military.

And just like Nigerians were convinced to recycle Obasanjo, the refrain is now out for Babangida, again. I will be the first to argue that political jobbers are behind this campaign. Babangida is assumed to be mythically rich, in stupendous proportions. Nigerian elections are expensive affairs and a candidate of the caliber of IBB will be able to raise resources and favors that will assure his close disciples of a highly rewarding stewardship.

Then I read that President Jonathan’s posters are now all over Abuja, in spite of loud protestations from his (Jonathan’s) camp. We have heard that before, haven’t we, many times, the reluctant leader syndrome? Babangida taught them this shit, and 17 years later, they still can’t be any more creative. Little incidents like that bring us face to face with our fear that, should Babangida decide to effectively contest, he will meet no opposition. Babangida’s comment is just to send a signal to his constituency within the reigning power block that all is well. If all else fails, he will step back in.

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Pictures from DustBeings

Questions and Answers

Q: When exactly in May do you leave for Nigeria, and what is your flight itinerary?

A: I don’t know. When that day comes, a helicopter from the White House is going to land near the KTravulake, commando style, and smuggle me out before anyone knows, and drop me right at the base of the Statue of Liberty in NY where a boat will ferry me to the JFK airport. From then the Air Force Ten will pick me up and drop me into France since all commercial airplanes are no longer flying in there because of the volcanic ash clouds. After a few hours in the streets of France speaking poor French and confirming to myself once and for all that all the French I claim to speak is nothing but trash African Vernacular French, I will hop onto the Air France Concorde plane brought back from retirement just for my sake, and fly home into Lagos’s unsuspecting but hot embrace. French expressions learnt so far: “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?”, “Je t’aime”, “Tu est belle.” and “Merde!” Why none of these have to do with getting directions, finding the nearest restaurant, or getting out of trouble is beyond me. My French friends are the most mischievous kind. From the sound of them, I know I’ll be getting into trouble. Ah, wish me luck. I’m gonna need it. 🙂

Q: What is the ONE experience that you will miss the most about the United States. I’d like to know.

A: Beside access to fast and stable internet and electricity access, it must be the opportunity to ride my bike every day on the bike trails around Edwardsville. Somehow, I wish I could change that about Nigeria’s high dependence on fuel and motorized vehicles. If we could only develop the bicycle transport system and make laws to construct paths for bicycle users. The sad fact is that there are no good roads for vehicles either, so bicycles are not a priority. And that is sad, considering how much we pay for fuel, and how much of the environment is destroyed by continues gas emissions, and how more affordable, and more sustainable a bicycle is as a means of transportation. The groups http://www.bicycles-for-humanity.org and http://bikesfortheworld.org are currently involved in securing used and unused bikes from people in developed countries, and sending them to developing countries. How could one claim such for the many thousands of elderly, poor or simply interested people in Nigeria who could have otherwise benefited from the programme if the environment in which they live does not even support a safe use of such a simple and yet effective means of transportation? Sad.

Here’s an article on cycling in berlin (thanks to Loomnie.com)

Abayomi and I

In this guest post, children’s story writer Ayodele Olofintuade writes a autobiographical account of growing up with her brother in Nigeria. It’s reproduced her as cross posted on her blog totallyhawaya-haywire.blogspot.com.

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… At five years old

“What’s the west of the stowy?” He asked staring at the pictures in the comic book

“The oko baba dudu first!” I said making a grab for the sweet.

He clutched it tighter, “Who is that man standing behind Spiderman?” He pointed at the comic.

“Oh he’s just there.” I said dismissively. “You promised to give me the sweet if I read the comic to you.” I said eyeing the oko baba dudu anxiously. In spite of the fact that I am three years older than Yomi he’s always one step ahead of me.

“What is this man doing there?” he repeated holding up the comic.

“How will I know? There is no balloon coming out of his mouth.” Then it dawned on me that Abayomi has no intention of giving me the sweet, so I made a grab for it . Abayomi gave the loud screech that always fetched our mother from wherever she was … I snapped my fingers at him. “I will show you! Mcheew!!” I know when to run …

“Wale! Biodun!!” he called his friends. “I have finished weading the comic. But you have to give me one oko baba dudu each before I tell you the stowy … is it me that said you should not know how to wead like me? … This is spiderman and the other one is emm… emm, …superfly…!”

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… And then he turned eleven

“But why is your cousin not talking now?” Jide said, eyeing my ‘cousin’ who is dressed up in a black mini skirt with a pair of very high heels and a big afro wig.

“I told you she’s mute, she can hear you but she cannot talk.” I said smiling at my ‘cousin’ as she applied … no smeared… more lipstick on already blood red lips and added powder to a ghostly face.

“But that your cousin looks like Yomi.” Jide said staring at the huge boobs straining at the tee-shirt.

“Wo Jide, I’m tired of this jare, do you want a girlfriend or not? She will allow you touch one of her breasts, just pay up.” I held out my hand for the twenty naira. Jide reluctantly handed over his life savings to me, his eyes still glued to my ‘cousin’s’ balloons… “Are you sure she will let me touch th…the…them?”

“You can take your 20 naira back if you don’t trust me.” I watched with disgust as Jide started squeezing one of the big pimples on his face … no wonder he doesn’t have a girlfriend.

“Where is Yomi?” He asked as he dipped a finger inside one of his nostrils.

“He’s in Lagos.” I said haughtily. “Come back around 8.30pm, my cousin will wait by that door.”

“It will be too dark.” He whined

“You did not say you want to see a breast you just want to feel it, so you don’t need light. You have to leave now, mummy is back.” I said pushing him through the door.

“Good afternoon ma. Bye-bye.” Jide said as he ran off.

“Abayomi what are you doing in my shoes … my wig and my make-up?” Yomi stood up from the chair and nearly fell off the heels he was wearing.

“Get that muck off your face. Go and change. What’s that on your chest? The balloons I bought for Oba’s birthday abi? Don’t worry; I’ll get to the bottom of this later. I hope you’re done packing because the taxi that will take us to Lagos is waiting outside…”

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… Yomi at 34

What fun we had in those days didn’t we?

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Ayo is the author of a forthcoming socially-conscious children’s storybook titled Eno’s Story scheduled to be published by Cassava Republic.

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