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Journalism of Courage
It was a contentious issue, we were forewarned. Opinions were sha-rply, even violently divided. Yet we were gathered. About fifty of us. There were journalists, representatives of NGOs, independent womens8217; and health activists and sex workers. We were seated in a circle on straightbacked chairs in the airconditioned hall on the first floor of the YMCA. And we were there to discuss prostitution. Or rather the unconventional notion that prostitution should be considered a legitimate, recognisable form of work.
There was one view in favour, expressed with breezy informality by the broad-shouldered female representative of an organisation based in Maharastra8217;s Sangli district. There was a view against, voiced in a tone of tight disapproval by the male representative of a Mumbai-based NGO. Orange and pink warning cards kept the speakers within their allotted twenty minutes. There were minor issues galore. Whether the speakers should sit or stand. What language the proceedings should take place in. Who should translate. And what was the word in Hindi for alienated8217;? The air conditioners blazed. A sex worker behind me shivered complainingly. And somehow we moved ahead.
A matronly woman, a sex worker from Kamathipura, was fervent in her response. Kidnapped, sold into the profession, locked, beaten, harassed 8211; that was her story. No, she shouted, prostitution was nothing to be proud of. Heads nodded in agreement. quot;We are forced to do it,quot; said her companion a small built woman with a pinched dark face, quot;we will never consider it work.quot; More arguments rose.
As the views flowed some discontent became apparent. And the man with the tight disapproving voice finally burst out : quot;These are complex issues 8211; you cannot just dismiss them like this!quot; Pitted against the somewhat brash exuberance of the pro camp this seemed a reasonable, almost adult, observation. But then what did he want? quot;I want my time.quot; He wanted to speak as long as he wished. He wanted no interruptions, no pink cards, no orange cards, no questions. And no, he said to the alarmed moderator who seem-ed willing to concede immediately, I will speak when I like, at the end.
Below the surface of NGO politics however, something was happening. The two sets of sex workers were engaging warily with each other. quot;If you knew our troubles you wouldn8217;t talk like this,quot; one of the Kamathipura women said to the others. quot;I understand,quot; Shabana, a plump sex worker from the Sangli district conceded. Her opponents were not satisfied. quot;We get beaten. We are prisoners and you just go on about your town as if it is some great free place,quot; they shouted. quot;Yes but we too suffered before,quot; Shabana said, quot;But we decided to come together and fight for our rights. And now we get respect from others.quot; quot;How did you do that?quot; someone asked. And slowly it seemed as if the hostility was melting, the barriers were coming down. The women most affected were communicating.
And then suddenly there was an explosion. A dark bearded man sprang up and with an watchful eye on his mentor across the room began to shout. An outburst that amounted to: What is the point of all this? Putting words on the board! It has become a fashion! Everywhere, in conferences, people discuss. Instead of wasting money why don8217;t you save at least one person? Rehabilitate one person. Save at least one sister8217; instead of talking! Shocked expressions greeted his interruption. The emerging mutual exchange was shattered. 8220;You!8221; he continued turning to Shabana, quot;if you are empowered why don8217;t you leave the profession?quot;
quot;Because I choose not to,quot; said the woman quietly. She was hardly heard. People were shouting, gesticulating. A social worker with the overtly patient manner of a teacher for the mentally challenged turned passionate and repeatedly crossed her forehead indicating the eternal stigma of prostitution. Someone whispered to me that there were enough NGOs that would hate women getting empowered because it would leave them with nothing to do. In the mayhem, the anti-group left the room not staying for tea and cakes or even to deliver the promised uninterrupted conclusion. Someone muttered about how this 8220;always happens8221;. It was an enlightening afternoon not just from the point of the view of the issue, which as the man pointed out was indeed complex enough to require much reflection, but enlightening as to the factors that prevent human beings from just talking to each other.
