Since Jyoti Singh Pandey’s brutal gang-rape case in 2012 brought the rape crisis to the forefront of Indian news, public awareness and anger have remained heightened across the country. When it comes to understanding the demand for sexual violence reform in India today, all roads seem to lead back to her. She was named Nirbhaya because the nation saw her exactly as that — fearless. Yet, there has been no change for the better.
“Crime in India”, the 2016 report by National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB), shows that 106 rapes are recorded in a day in India, with four out of every ten of the victims being minors. Furthermore, as the report also shows, 94.6% of the cases showed the perpetrators to be the victim’s family (brother, father, uncle, grandfather, son or acquaintance). This makes one wonder the daunting number of unreported cases that exist, especially since marital rape is not deemed rape at all.
In 2016, only one in four cases of rape ended in conviction. This is the lowest conviction rate since 2012. While this is expected to happen when the crime rate is decreasing, the NCRB report indicates the exact opposite to be true with an 82% increase in rape cases. This is still with a majority of instances going unreported, and many not being considered rape at all. A recent report by Thomson Reuters declared India as the most dangerous country for women, forcing people across the world to open their eyes to this harsh reality. So, no. The situation is not getting better. Our cries are just getting louder.
When a woman comes forward because she was raped in India, there are a fixed number of outcomes for her:
- One, her case is not even taken seriously by the police. This could be because they do not see it as a legitimate addition to their caseload or some other such patriarchal preoccupation.
- Two, her rapist was someone powerful against whom taking action would be deemed pointless or dangerous to pursue.
- Three, the case gets filed and then the justice system rips her and her family apart. The process of going through a trial in India is long-drawn and traumatic. It places the burden of proof upon the victim, regardless of how henious the crime and seemingly powerless they are.
- Four, society rapes her again. A girl and her family are often subject to violence and ostracisation for coming forward and seeking justice. Living in a rape culture means shame is all-pervasive. It is imbibed in us that victims are to blame for crimes committed.
It is typically some morbid combination of the above four scenario that occurs. Even if the rapist is convicted, a few years in jail is no deterrent, especially when the system is so corrupt that he will probably be out in a short while. Regardless of a woman’s class, caste, religion or any other identity, she is in danger and a victim of this system.
Like race in America, gender in India is the issue in which all the power dynamics holding systems of oppression together can be unpacked. Except, it is not about just institutionalised oppression and unfortunate encounters with racists faced by a minority, but half the country that is victimised and violated on a daily basis by the other half.
The form of justice that India practises on paper is reformative justice rather than retributive justice. That is, we believe that every human being is capable of reform if they are properly rehabilitated, and that revenge is not the way to seek justice. Of course, functioning as a populist democracy means that if there is enough uproar, a death penalty will be administered from time to time.
The Supreme Court ruling in Bacchan Singh vs State of Punjab set the precedent in 1980 that the death penalty could be administered only in the “rarest of the rare” cases. This is what happened in the case of Nirbhaya’s rapists.
As much as I, along with many other Indians, wanted to strangle them with our own bare hands, I knew that killing them was not the solution. It was not fair that they got to die when her family still has to live the pain of what they did every single day. It was not fair for them to escape the consequences of their brutality while India will weep forever for her daughter. The rapists paid no price at all. There has been no reform or retribution.
In India, criminals are protected much better than women are. It is their faces that are covered and bodies surrounded by security while they await trials that will provide little to no relief for families. How can we protect our girls in the streets, when we cannot protect them in their own homes or even in the wombs of their mothers?
Today, the Prohibition of Sex Selection Act that interdicts Indians from determining the sex of their child before birth remains in place. It was originally constituted in 1996 as a preventive measure against female foeticide and was amended in 2003 to include subsequent advances in sex determination technology. The law stands in place because we still do not want our girl children, and that is exactly how they are treated from womb to grave.
It has been ingrained in Indian society to see women as commodities and sexual object who deserve whatever befalls them, especially if they deviate from the norm. These are norms that imitate how our colonial oppressors expected women to behave. Indian patriarchs have simply reoccupied these white supremacist methods of control and added their own cultural interpretation of it, making sure their sons follow in their footsteps.
And now, about castration as the punishment for rape in India. In 2013, a year after Nirbhaya’s brutal rape and death, the idea was rejected by the Justice J. S. Verma Committee who claimed that castration “fails to treat the social foundations of rape”. The committee outlines how sexually violent crimes are “not merely crimes of passion but an expression of power”. I agree that the solution to the problem lies in the social foundations that strengthens our rape culture.
The stark power difference internalised by men and women is not inherent but learnt. This is why the committee recommended education reforms wherein “children’s experiences should not be gendered” and “sexuality education” should be imparted to them. This is next to impossible and almost laughable since our government preaches a religion called Hindutva that eerily imitates the narrative and methods of maintaining power and control that western Christianity has thrived on. Their central methods being divide et impera, or divide and rule, and the imbibing and preservation of male dominance in society.
Identity politics has become synonymous with Indian politics, but the underrepresentation of women is never seriously questioned. It is clear that the satisfaction of the sexual urges, along with all other desires, of men superseded the safety of women. This has become our norm. No reform in our social foundations will fix the disease of feeling a violent entitlement over a woman’s body deeply runs in the veins of too many. If there is overwhelming evidence contradicting this, which I have come across nowhere so far, I will rethink this.
We can no longer prioritise anything over the safety of our women, too often inclusive of those who have barely begun their lives.
There is hope for future generations, but seemingly none for those who have already been indoctrinated and acted on this in monstrous ways. This is why I call for chemical castration. For those who immediately want to oppose what I am saying, unlike committing violent sexual acts against a woman, chemical castration is reversible. This argument is not an emotional one, since that is often how a woman’s arguments is framed so it can be disregarded. It is a practical one.
Castration is in no way a permanent solution. But, it will provide temporary relief and assure women that men who have committed sexually violent acts against them can be made incapable of doing it again. They will be broken in the same way they have broken their victims, by having their power taken away.
There will be many more horrifying rapes that will happen in our country before (hopefully) a change will come. India will hang her head in shame for many more days to come. I am not claiming that castration will be a deterrent against the forces of misogyny driving our rape culture. It may, but that is not my assertion here. Men so often do resort to a retributive form of justice to try and pacify the masses by maintaining and changing laws that can never get at the root of the problem.
I am instead stating that chemical castration is a chance for those who have committed these acts to atone for their wrongdoings by experiencing the absolute loss of power that defines the female experience in India.
Men who rape newborn babies and children (or anyone) must never be given the opportunity to do so again. They are men who have been aroused by viciously coercive sexual activity. These men are usually closely related to those they commit such crimes against. So, it is the duty of the state to protect its people, but sometimes it is put in a position where it has no choice but to choose some groups over others. This is especially salient in a strikingly diverse nation like ours. The groups who have been protected have always been men.
Despite being disproportionately affected by the lack of reform and support from those who are supposed to protect them, women have never been given this consideration. And by consideration I mean basic human rights and dignity.
For once, I am asking that we are made the priority. Those who perpetuate these crimes tend to call India their mother, but this is how they treat their sisters. They protect themselves at the price of our bodies. They take us for granted and accept our living in fear as the norm. For once, I am asking men to value our perspective on what we go through everyday over their own regarding something they can never understand.
For once, I am asking for us to matter.
