[By banning the
film, the Indian government has only succeeded in continuing a long
tradition of silencing victim’s stories in a cloud of shame and guilt, made
even worse with the shaky excuse of protecting women.]
Chances
are you’ve heard about British filmmaker Leslee Udwin’s controversial
documentary, India’s Daughter. After getting to watch the film
myself, I can attest to its powerful and shocking portrayal of current-day
India. Warning that the topics about to be discussed are not easy.
India’s
Daughter tells the story of Jyoti
Singh’s brutal 2012 gang rape at the hands of six men on a bus in Delhi. The
rape made international headlines, spotlighting the prevalent issue of sexual
assault in India. Jyoti eventually died from injuries that were a result of the
attack. The film was originally meant to be broadcast in both India and
the UK on International Women’s Day, March the 8th, but was banned in
India with the government claiming several reasons — one being that the content
would incite widespread violence against women. As the New York Times stated,
“Sexual violence is a highly charged topic in India, and though the vast
majority here had not yet seen the film . . . it was nonetheless the subject of
stormy debate among activists and public intellectuals.”
To
India’s ire, the UK responded to
the film’s ban by bringing up its own premiere date to March 4 and, on
March 9, the film made its US debut with
the help of Meryl Streep and Freida Pinto. I’m thankful for these efforts as
this is a film that should never have been banned in the first place.
Indeed, India’s Daughter is powerful on a gut-level; at least
once I felt physically ill thinking of what Jyoti must have gone through.
By banning the
film, the Indian government has only succeeded in continuing a long
tradition of silencing victim’s stories in a cloud of shame and guilt, made
even worse with the shaky excuse of protecting women.
While
Udwin’s filmmaking seems slightly misguided at times, particularly in
the use of slow motion camera-work, she has offered a multitude of voices
from each side of the story. In the absence of Jyoti’s own voice, we have those
of her parents. Asha and Badri Singh glow as they recall their daughter’s
passion for life and independent spirit: it was Jyoti’s idea to use the money
traditionally saved for her wedding to help fund her education, to cover the
rest her parents sold their ancestral land and Jyoti worked the nightshift at a
local call center.
Yet
Kavita Krishnan, an activist who appears in the documentary, has since
criticized the film for a one-dimensional portrayal of Jyoti as saint-like and
all poor men as misogynistic killers. In my opinion, positions such as
this are looking for criticism in the wrong place. Nothing Jyoti had done in
the past would change what happened to her on the day she was attacked, just as
nothing her attackers had done in their past would clean her blood
from their hands.
The
film points out a general apathy that seems spread across all levels of
society. Raj Kumar, the patrolman who stumbled upon Jyoti after the
attack, explains how visibly hurt she was. Yet when he yelled for help from the
increasing crowd of bystanders, not one person stepped forward.
It
was only at the end of the film where I felt Udwin left unanswered questions.
Jyoti’s mother sobs before the camera, a lit candle drifts on the current of a
river; but where is the call to action? What are the next steps? The film
shows how protests in reaction to the extreme
brutality of Jyoti’s murder raged for over a month. Spurred into action, the
government arrested the perpetrators and set up a rape review committee to suggest
improvements to the criminal law.
The
resulting Verma Report, a 650-page document, is thorough
and impressive. But what about us? What can we do to spark change?
As
the film suggests, education is key to changing how society thinks about
women—but we need to go one step further and demand a complete re-education.
Udwin’s film is not anti-India; the India that produced the men who brutally
raped and murdered is also the India responsible for the bright young woman who
wanted to get an education and give back to her community. What the film does reveal
is the depth and scope of gender inequality in society, how this deeply ingrained
misogyny is literally killing the women of our future.
The
problem goes beyond the men’s actions—it’s a problem of media, culturally
ingrained misogyny and class issues.
The
film takes place in India, but its predicament is one that all cities have
dealt with at different times and in varying degrees: how does a society
reconcile the traditions of the past with the modernization of the present?
Women are often the battleground of these two paths, traditionally bound
to the home but with opportunities of education and a better life just outside
their front doors. Jyoti’s stunted legacy reveals the worst case
scenario—a woman extinguished for taking control of her future—but the ripple
effect of her death represents humankind’s true potential for meaningful
change.
India
should be applauded for its quick reaction to the protests, but by censoring
the film, the government has proven that it is missing the point. Through the
many holes of their reasoning, the motive behind the ban is clear: India’s
Daughter pulls back the curtain to reveal an ugly truth. With the
refusal of the film’s screening, Jyoti has been silenced twice over: once by
her murderers and again by her government. Thankfully, India’s ban has
backfired: using bedsheets and hidden rooftops, women such as Ketan Dixit have
been hosting clandestine screenings. It is up to
each of us to find our own way of facing the inequality in society
head on— it is only together that we can ensure Jyoti’s voice rings clear
for the world to hear.
