Tags:
Journalism of Courage
I met Zeenat at a meeting in Chennai four months ago. Her face still haunts me. In her mid-40s, she was attractive, with expressive eyes filled with a quiet intensity. We were having a discussion with a group of women in sex work on the kind of violence they faced.
Zeenat had many stories to tell of unspeakable violence, sexual abuse and exploitation. Her voice broke as she recounted how someone took her to Goa with the promise of a job. It turned out that she had to work as a barmaid, and often had to face repeated sexual assaults.
She told me how her mother was her father8217;s second wife and how she herself ended up marrying her mother8217;s partner. How looking after her 27-year-old disabled son is her priority now: 8220;otherwise God will not forgive me8221;. There is the pain of losing her elder son who refuses to be with her ever since he came to know that she makes a living selling sex.
How can someone8217;s life go so horribly wrong, I thought. How did Zeenat cope with rejection from all quarters: parents, husband, children. Do the men who come to the bar and who pay to have sex with her know the dark, untold side of her story? If they knew, would they act differently?
Interview over, it was Zeenat8217;s turn to ask questions. What does your husband do, she asked. I told her, almost apologetically, that I was not married. She was surprised, looked very happy, shook my hand and said, 8220;That8217;s great.8221; My turn to be surprised. I asked Zeenat why she had said that. She answered, 8220;Men exploit. Today I8217;m on my own and I8217;m free.8221; Then she added hurriedly, as if not wanting to offend me, 8220;But of course your life is very different from mine.8221;
I listened to what she said. She was touched that I sought her opinion. Clearly, it was something unusual for her. I still think about her sometimes.
