Twilight Freedom

Is it all right for a feminist to spread her intellectual thighs in a magazine that glorifies the female form? The question should not even bother me. Yet, why is it that although I am comfortable in my feminism, I have to justify it all the time, fight for it to breathe? The torch that should turn stereotypes to ashes ends up burning me. Scalded thus, I sit in a corner, a victim of my ideals, refusing to sell out, but wondering whether there would be any buyers at all.

I am pushed on the defensive only because you men like watching a woman’s body. It is assumed that it is all you do, just as my ‘encouraging’ you becomes reason enough to berate me for letting down the cause. Why does one have to follow a typical feminist course, anyway? This is where we get into a twist. An Indian woman scholar had written about the former American First Lady: “If Mrs. Clinton does stand by her man because she loves him or Chelsea or both too much, then her claim to being a feminist is seriously questionable. If it is argued that she does it to protect his presidency, then too she is open to the charge of being a nationalist rather than a feminist. Finally, if it is suggested that she practises ‘steadfastness’ to stay in command informally as co-president, she again falls short of the feminist ideal. To be an authentic feminist, Mrs. Clinton would be honourable only if she went after her goals for holding and exercising power on her own steam, not as an icon with reflected glory.” And what utter poppycock it is to use terms like “Hillary’s sati stance”.

This is frightening. It seems professional feminists will be satisfied with only those who remain on one narrow path. Imagine the perils of being an authentic feminist who cannot satisfy her desire for a family, cares not about the nation and the other issues that wreak havoc on society. For me the most ‘moral’ lesson in contemporary times has come from a surprising source: Madonna. She had a traditional wedding ceremony with Guy Ritchie, but in her vows she did not promise to “obey” her husband. Instead, she said she would “cherish, honor, delight in family and always keep and hold to one another”. Isn’t that what it is about?

What I find amusing is the Indian libber who sings the praises of true feminism as espoused by the rural woman and good old grandma. Let us get this straight. Feminism is an urban phenomenon. To glorify grandmas who toiled ceaselessly is to ignore the fact that they had no choice -- they would have vastly preferred lolling on a cot than struggling with pots and pans. The same applies to the village woman -- working hard at home and in the fields is force of circumstances, and native common sense ought not to be confused with an ideology. But Indian feminism with its softer tones fallaciously believes that we have spurned the baggage. We feel superior by simply painting the Western model in gross colours.

This, however, does not absolve the pioneers of being victims of feministic archetypes. The peeve against Simone de Beauvoir, for example, is the quality of her relationship with Jean Paul Sartre. As one article had pointed out, “That unflinching subordination turned their more than 50-year partnership into one of the most fascinating and frustrating pairings of the 20th century. The godmother of modern feminism would drop whatever she was doing to chauffeur, make love to, find lovers for, nurse, edit, sit with, read to and travel with Sartre. In 1940, Beauvoir put aside her own novel ‘without the slightest pang’ because, she wrote, ‘his theory was worth so much more than any novel I would have written then’.”

For someone who refused to live in with her lover because it would be a replication of marriage, surely she was doing this out of choice? So, the question begs to be asked: Why would a liberated woman choose to do so? Perhaps it gave her joy and she enjoyed the role of disciple?

But feminists cannot stomach that -- the same ones who applaud the village woman/grandma for struggling though they have no alternative. So appalled are they by Beauvoir that they now claim it was she who was the philosopher and Sartre borrowed liberally from her ideas. A commentator showed better perspective when he stated, “It’s altogether possible that these ideas were, in some sense, originated by Beauvoir, but in creative couples there is such intense interchange and development of ideas it’s very difficult to say who originated the idea and who wrote it down.”

What about the intensely personalised writings by women? Don’t they borrow from their experiences with men? Aren’t men expected to nurture their talent? Don’t many women take over the mantle from their husbands in politics and business even though they may not be accomplished in the particular field? Isn’t feminism itself a reaction to, and a result of a struggle with, men?

Now I know these are things that good women who uphold liberation are not supposed to say. But who wants to be a good woman waiting patiently for breasts to sag with age and hair to grey gracefully and mouthing words of wisdom that sound like someone who has been sitting in an echo chamber that drones, “Look woman, fight for your rights…get that darned orgasm…the dildo is your birthright…men are dodos, extinct”?

Someone told me recently, “Remember one thing, no one can touch your soul.” This is true, but what do I do with an untarnished soul that in its sublimity cannot bleed with me nor participate with me in the final rites of burying those wounds? It isn’t that the fire in my belly has been doused or the eyes don’t flash in anger anymore. Female rage over set male patterns still singes me. But in personal relationships I do not like confrontation. This is delicate territory. The cheapest shot anyone can take at you is to deny you your independence by pulling the rug from under your feet. Yes, I can touch base with the ground, but why do I miss the carpet so? Is that my feminity mocking my feminism?

It was a stray comment by a friend that set me thinking. She said, “Honey, if you even imagine you can write like a termagant, why don’t you try practising it?” I have met so many people of late who pop that question, “You talk so much about women’s rights. Do you know what it really is – for you?”

So, don’t ask me who I am. Don’t ask me anything. For, if you will, I shall tell you, and it won’t be what you want to hear…there will be ten voices talking to you in as many languages conveying ten times as many emotions. Which is why I have never bothered to ask myself who I am. Does it matter?

- FARZANA VERSEY