Masks that Kill

These are some previews for documentaries highlighting the nefarious undertones of Western gender roles. Both men and women are forced to embody an unattainable or destructive version of themselves to feel worthy in society. Awareness is the road to change.

Photo-cred---The Sartorialist

Inherited Insecurity

             Holidays bombard the mind--the sweets and meat sweats, the nog-fueled family games and consequential brawls. It is without a doubt, the most haywire time of any year. Everything seems magnified—feasts, gifts, love, loneliness. For anyone teetering on insanity, this is the time to go ham. I’ve surfed this holiday season high like a pro. But, as Newton assured us, there is always a come down; it’s science. 
             I write this at our breakfast bar on another bluebird Colorado morning. The parental units have made their exit to the daily grind in an agro-rush, to-do lists abounding, while I take my time with the morning, make another cup of coffee and let that feeling sink in. You know, the feeling when everyone else in your life seems to have a plan, a purpose, even if it makes them miserable and you sit, twiddling thumbs, eerily content yet maddeningly concerned. I wonder if the Germans have a word for this (they have a word for everything); I shall simply call it ‘postcollegiateangst.’

            If there were such a place in which this psychosocial state would be less of a burden, my hometown should be up there. In fact, I will admit that Glenwood Springs, Colorado is quite exquisite—with landscapes worthy of Ansel Adams’ praise for days and colorful people to fill the space between takes. Living in this high mountain valley of Colorado is a dream, for anyone but those who grew up here.

            You know how it is, coming home. It is the kind of place where everyone knows your name, and that of your parents, and grandparents. And the whole time you’ve been gone, some grand tale has been squeezed down the gossip drain of work-out mom groups and hockey dads as to what you’ve been up to. University is an easy scapegoat; it’s like a coupon for four years out of their microscope of scrutiny. But man, once you dawn that cap, get ready for the firing squad of interrogators. I suppose this—what I like to call ‘small-town syndrome’—and a mélange of my sociocultural upbringing is the reason why every time I come home, no matter what time or space in life I occupy, I feel like a failure.

            I have made the habit of jittering my way through daily tasks with the kind of subtle anxiety that follows hyper-caffeination. A few nights ago, my Dad arrived home from work and I was a veritable mess—cooking, crying, laughing, making excel spreadsheets to map out my life.

            “Hey Kendall Nicole,” he beamed, “how was your day?”

            I shrugged my shoulders and broke down, “I feel worthless Pops.” He enveloped me in a bear hug. I shared with him my fears of this space in my life—where everything is uncertain and responsibilities are endless. I had recently made the decision to move to Portland, Oregon. All prodigious decisions ensue rippling doubt in their wake—did I make the right choice, how will I find work, I don’t have a network—etc.

            My father quelled my discontent with a dose of perspective, as he always does, “Kendall, I can’t imagine much else in the world should scare you considering where you have been and what you have accomplished.”

            This comment really got me thinking about the unsettling aura that has taken refuge in the folds of my prefrontal cortex. It is a societal script of inadequacy that women internalize. We are taught to become smaller, grow inward not outward— never give ourselves well-deserved credit or the benefit of the doubt. There is a self-esteem epidemic among my fellow ladies of the West and I think it is insidiously impeding our progress as humans with incredible talent for change and success.

            How peculiar is that I am so much more comfortable being abroad? I am not afraid to make mistakes or a fool out of myself; I have faith that everything will work out because it has to. In harsh juxtaposition, my home environment makes me question everything—my future, my body, my life-choices. Granted, women are treated atrociously in India, but there is certainly something about our society that degenerates women’s/human’s confidence.

            Perhaps it is a matter of context and this space carries age-old triggers specific to my conditioning, while being in a foreign land allows one to form a new self-concept irrespective of place, people, and past. When you are participating in another society you can always distance yourself from the cultural problems you witness; you can throw up your hands in surrender and think, “this place is crazy.” But when observing social issues at home, it is not something so easily ignored because it is in our mother cultures that we see a reflection of ourselves.

            One aspect of our culture that I find pressures young adults into settling for a safe,  ‘correct’ life (by societal standards), as opposed to pursuing their unique passions, is the premium placed on absolutes. Whether or not we are willing to admit it, we are dualists who thrive on certainty. I blame the religion of science for this mode of thinking—and consumerism. We categorically organize our world because that is what our culture values—a box and complementary explanation for everything. This mental technique, although extremely efficient, doesn’t allow a space for revering the unknown. If us ladies don’t fit into the ‘box’ of perfection as laid out by advertising companies and pop-culture, we render ourselves worthless as individuals.

            Perhaps us Westerners have become accustomed to playing God, but one of many things I learned in India is that we have little control over our lives in terms of macro-level planning. We must submit to the moment and trust that this is exactly where we need to be. Isn’t it true that most genuinely good things in life come to fruition at the whim of what some may call fate? The trick here is learning to have faith in said fate.

            I believe that we only have control insofar as our attitudes, emotions, and thought patterns. Opportunities will only present themselves when the mind is receptive. Thoughts are not innocuous; they have immense energy, carving neural pathways in their wake. These patterns have the ability to create Grand Canyons of mental dysfunction, from whose valley belly we can no longer see the sun. It is truly an amazing magic trick—telling yourself something enough times that you become convinced of its validity—regardless of its basis in rationale. Only if we learn to bolster self-love and dam destructive alleys can we lessen the grip of toxic cultural bombardment. That said, the ability to control mental erosion is a talent of Buddhaesque proportions, although certainly a skill worth cultivating.

            No matter how ‘zen’ the mind, women can’t help but internalize the patriarchal scaffolding of our society. With increased spelunking into the folds of my prefrontal cortex, I have called forth the unsettling aura of self-doubt, interrogating to reveal its nascence. The cultural dogma that assigns greater value to masculinity and objectifies femininity quietly traumatizes female psyches across the world. It is a dialogue of inadequacy that women internalize upon comparing themselves to ‘what women should be.’ We are taught to become smaller, grow inward not outward— never give ourselves well-deserved credit or the benefit of the doubt. The end result is a chronic self-depreciating epidemic, fostered in a soil of shame, that is insidiously impeding women’s progress to be recognized (within and without) as humans who hold up ‘half the sky’.  

            Dr.Gershan Kaufman writes about the psychology of shame and its roots in three American cultural scripts of success, independence, and conformity. The success script values those who ‘pull themselves up by their own bootstraps. As Kaufman writes, “competing for success and achieving by external standards of performance are the clarion calls of culture,” and eventually, “achievement becomes the measure of self-esteem, of one’s intrinsic worth or adequacy.” Dr. Kaufman continues to elaborate on the idea that if individuals don’t achieve the American-dream level of success, they are immediately viewed as failures; “simply being average must seem a curse.” The independence script values the ‘lone-rangers’ who don’t burden others with issues or accept help. The ‘go-it-alone’ attitude hinders the expression of our very essence as social beings. The conformity script is simple enough to understand; our culture doesn’t accept people who are different, in the minority, or outside our high expectations of mental/physical/professional/emotional/familial perfection.

            If you noticed, the aforementioned scripts generating our shame-culture involve the praise of hyper-masculinity and condemnation of care, vulnerability, patience, trust, community, and empathy—all feminine attributes that psychologists believe are rudimentary to combating shame.

            Dr.Brene Brown, a social worker from Texas—a fantastic lady whose work I have been a fan of for a while now—is a shame reseracher. Brown defines shame as,

“an intensely painful feeling or experience of believing we are flawed and therefore unworthy of acceptance and belonging. Women often experience shame when they are entangled in a web of layered, conflicting and competing social-community expectations. Shame creates feelings of fear, blame and disconnection.”

            We all know shame very well; that gut-feeling of “I’m not worthy” that can ruin your whole day. It limits opportunities of exposing yourself or taking chances at greatness due to a festering fear of failure or rejection.  Dr. Brown calls for women especially to start practicing authenticity in their lives—and the path to authentic living is through the forest of vulnerability where shame needs to be recognized, shared, and combated with genuine love for the self, as-is. She recognizes that,

“To love someone fiercely, to believe in something with your whole heart, to celebrate a fleeting moment in time, to fully engage in a life that doesn’t come with guarantees – these are risks that involve vulnerability and often pain. But, I’m learning that recognizing and leaning into the discomfort of vulnerability teaches us how to live with joy, gratitude and grace.”

            Dr. Brown’s call for humanity to live ‘whole-heartedly’ is liberating. I fully recommend reading any of her books, but my personal favorite is The Gifts of Imperfection.

            In the words of Ross Rosenburg , it all comes down to the question, “are you a human doing or a human being?” When we measure our self-worth by what we ‘do’ rather than who we ‘are,’ shame is bound to rule our lives because the proverbial carrots of our society are simply unattainable. We, as humans, must learn to embrace this culturally inherited insecurity as a condition of living a genuine life. Fear will always continue to lurk in the corners of our mind, and shame will burrow its way into our consciousness, but recognizing these emotions and thought patterns as part of the dark that attracts the light allows us to live genuine lives. As Dr. Brown so eloquently states: 

“The dark does not destroy the light; it defines it. It's our fear of the dark that casts our joy into the shadows… To become fully human means learning to turn my gratitude for being alive into some concrete common good. It means growing gentler toward human weakness. It means practicing forgiveness of my and everyone else's hourly failures to live up to divine standards. It means learning to forget myself on a regular basis in order to attend to the other selves in my vicinity. It means living so that "I'm only human" does not become an excuse for anything. It means receiving the human condition as blessing and not curse, in all its achingly frail and redemptive reality.”

Shrinking Women-- Lily Myers

 A fellow female friend who struggles with the classic melange of body-image-food-guilt-shitshow shared this slam poem with me; I think it is raw and empowering.

The Farm

It's a balancing act

Jergu and Verakka

Distributing compost to newly planted trees, baby on the hip

Gettin ready for the day! 

Selma and her son, Rehan

We plant trees (about 4,000 in the first week), harvest crops, weed, pluck caterpillars off plants, haul compost, process grains, sit in the shade chewing tambac, and do it all over again. It has been incredible to get my hands in the dirt. I have become aware of my lifelong amnesia with regards to food processes--how and where I get my life's energy. I have learned to recognize fruits, veggies, grains, legumes, spices, and herbs, which I have been consuming my whole life but could only envision the aisle they occupy in the local grocery store: cashew, black peppercorn, pomegranate, eucalyptus, cilantro, eggplant, tomato, millet, peanuts, spinach, cauliflower, cucumber, allspice, tumeric, bay leaves, curry plants, et al.

After the first few weeks, once my body woke up from its city-induced stupor, my days at the farm began to blend into a harmonious waltz of working and eating, working and eating, working and more eating--and isn't that just the bare-bones essence of life? 

I feel as if a certain meditative effect occurs with this type of existence, being so involved in the production and consumption processes of mere bodily functioning. When I sit down to a meal I can envision the patch of ground from which this vegetable grew; I can feel the aching muscles in my back and the blisters on my hand regaining the energy they expended to produce this meal; I have made a family with the women whose hands grew, harvested, and cooked this energy. I can fully understand now why organic produce costs so much--the human costs it takes to successfully and carefully grow these plants and get them to market is incredible. Luckily, the people here get more than a livable wage and are very well-off for farmhands. 

During the day when my back hurts and the mosquitos are eating me alive and the greenhouse feels like a sauna, I can't help but think of all those people who are slaving away to run the food industry who have to work in much harsher conditions for insufficient wages. I swear if anyone came and spent one week here at this farm they would never again bitch about the cost of food, once they realize that wholesome food is not something that just appears out of thin air. 

Do you ever once, while you are pushing your cart down the aisles of your local Safeway, contemplate the hands that watered and plucked those spinach leaves? We take our food for granted, because we don't even have a connection to this essential life energy in the way that nature intended. Food takes the backseat to money and pilates and WalMart and advertising. 

What if we actually cultivated or personally cooked everything we consumed? I know, it sounds a little "animal, vegetable, miracle," and somewhat insane given our culture. But being in a place where that is the norm. Everyone in this village grows their own crops, have cows for dairy and raise livestock if they eat meat. Things they buy from town consist of bulk oil, wheat flour, rice, sugar, and random spices.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

This is what a day in the life of the women I work with looks like: 

You wake-up before dawn, when the rooster makes its first movements--, make multiple trips to the well, filling up buckets of water for the day. Milk the goat, or cow, or both. come back to the house, start a fire with wood you gathered last night on the floor in the corner of your one bedroom shack; the stove is a pyramid of rocks above the small fire upon which pots and pans can be heated. Breastfeed your rousing babies. Walk to the allspice trees to gather leaves for tea. Pour some water,milk, and chopped tea leaves in a pot, make chai for your husband. Warm some water for your loved ones to bathe with in the bushes. Put some rice on the fire. Walk back into the forest to gather vegetables for breakfast and lunch--green beans, tomato, eggplant, onion, cilantro, coconut, lime, passionfruit, greens, green chillies, okra, curry leaves, mustard seeds (this could take up to an hour to find the right fruiting plants in a permaculture plot). 

Come back, start to make breakfast-- chappati: take a bunch of wheat flour, water, salt, and roll out dough ball pancakes. Set aside. Make whatever subje you had planned. Chop up all your veggies, simmer them in a curry broth with onion, garlic, green chillies. Feed your crying babies. Feed your husband--another round of chai for him. Clean up the dishes by hand with a bucket of water outside your house with crushed soap leaves you gathered last week. Get your older kids washed and dressed for school. Walk them to the bus. Come back. Eat whatever food is left over for yourself. Take the rice for lunch off the fire. Make some tambac to chew--betel nut and leaf, with a dab of tobacco. Take the goats and cows to the fields to graze, let the chickens out with the baby on your hip. Come back. Check to see if the electricity is on at its assigned hour--from 8-9. It is. Fight with the neighbors for the community plug to charge your family mobile. 

At 9am, it is time for work. Labor all day in the fields, gardens, and greenhouses. Planting, hoeing, sowing, harvesting, plucking, stripping, digging, all with your baby on the hip or suckling the breast while you crouch to weed. At 2pm you head back to the house and prepare lunch. Chop. Simmer. Roll. Beat. Serve. Wash. Repeat. You always eat last, usually around 2:45 after everyone around you is good and fed. Sit for 15min, chatting with the neighbors or chewing betel nut, making sure your husbands chai cup is full. At 3pm, work starts again. So its babies and bosoms and blossoms and bounty for another three hours, till 6pm, when you will head home again to begin your slew of chores.

 Refill water buckets if you do washing or sweep the dirt floors of your home, clean the ash piles out of your makeshift kitchen, make chai. Before it gets dark you head to the pasture to retrieve the animals, sometimes your little kiddos will help shepherd with you, the young calves are the hardest to guide. On the way you will gather veggies, fruits, and spices from the jungle or gardens, depending on what catches your eye. 

Around 7:30 or 8, you begin to make dinner. By this time your babies are grumpy and are most definitely vying for a spot in your lap, they will suckle you while you crouch over the fire or shave fresh coconut for a chutney. After your baby is drugged with breast milk you place them in a dupatta you hung from the rafters to sleep--a makeshift crib. Anytime between 9 or 10 you will have dinner ready. If there are guests you would have already served them a cornucopia of fried snacks, biscuits, and sweet tea while they sit crisscrossed on your floor, sharing pains and gains and gossip. You serve the guests first, heaping mounds of food which they have to finish. You will force a second serving on them and offer a third. 

Amidst the chitchat you try to calm your children down and get them to sleep despite the constant racket that is communal living. You clear all the dishes, sweep the floor, and wait for your husband, who is watching TV two shacks over or who is drinking at the village Tasmac. He'll come home for food around 10 or 11, after serving him chai you will be permitted to eat the leftovers. At this point you will make any preparations for the morning and prepare to sleep. You have already rolled out mats on the floor for your children and husband. After washing yourself with cold water outside, you lay down in your nightie next to your husband, placing your hand on your pregnant belly and fall into dreams of Bollywood stars only to be snapped back to reality in 5 hours start all over again. 

I now challenge you to imagine the kind of life you would live if you had to grow all of your own food-- think about that while you contemplate spending the extra dollar or two on your fair-trade, local, and/or organic foodstuffs. 

Beautiful Women Unite

This day was full of firsts. I walked with trepidation to the Perambur Loco train station, clutching my purse and covering my head with my dupatta. I missed the first train because I didn't see any identification as to its destination--little did I know that trains in India hardly have physical cues for where they are going, most of the time you have to count on strangers to tell you the way. After riding to Central Station in a men's cart, seeing as I didn't know there were women only carts, I had my blank poker face on like I knew what I was doing, but there's nothing more unnerving than 100+ eyes following your every move when you aren't sure of where you are headed. I traced my zig-zagged way from Central to Park--the suburban train track, called Devi numerous times to make sure I was in the right direction, and finally found her at the Egmore bus stop. 

Cities can be so overwhelming when you have no earthly idea of where you are or how to get around. I am very pleased to say that I feel comfortable getting just about anywhere in Chennai at this point via public transport and if all else fails---there's always auto-rickshaws. And hey, even if you get ripped off, at least you aren't getting groped on an over-capacity city-bus. By the way, there is a women's side on the bus as well--when in doubt, find the huddle of ladies and they will most certainly be glad to protect you and help you on your way. Every woman in a saree will most likely treat you like a demanding mother, correcting your posture or removing pieces of jewelry she doesn't approve of, even if you are a stranger! That said, women's camaraderie extends especially to foreigners here. Most ladies are just concerned that I am so far away from home, my family, and they want to show me hospitality and ensure my safety. 

One time, on a bus, which looked like a mechanical centipede, with a melange of human limbs and carry-ons poking out of every door and window, I saw a woman being subtly groped by a greasy dude, who was taking advantage of the crowd to rub up against her. I tried to make room and motion for her to move closer to me, away from this dude. My attempts caught the attention of some ladies in front of me, who immediately understood the situation and seethed. They started shouting and beating the man off the bus with their tiny purses, shuffling the young lady under their silk wings. I've found this to be such a contrast to my society, where women see every other female as a competition or simply cast strangers off as 'dumb bitches' because of their outfits or mannerisms. 

This was my rumination as the 27D bus roared down Chennai's streets with unsettling speed. Devi put her arm around me, "I am glad Kand, to teach you these ways so you can go freely," she smiled broadly, turning up her Hindi-jams on her tiny Nokia and did a mini-shoulder dance, "I'll show you all the tricks, na? And when I come your place, you show me all the things. So we can go happily, isn't it?" 

"Without you Devi, I dunno what I would do," I said in between jarring stops, the bus slamming on brakes, missing pedestrians by a arms length.

"And me too, without you Kand. We make it a cheerful life, na?" She was interrupted by a lady who dropped her purse in Devi's lap, for safekeeping. "The women at the Vigilance Home will be so glad to meet you." 

The first time I went to the Vigilance Home, a woman's prison in Chennai, I was nervous. I was about to interact with women who had been arrested for sex work, most of them trafficked into the trade. I didn't know what to expect. I had prepared in my head a list of games and activities in case things got awkward. I spent the whole morning practicing my key Hindi phrases, since Devi told me many of the women come from North India. 

We walked down the tree lined driveway leading to a dilapidated building, with bars lining the walk-ways and cats everywhere.

"The warden treats her cats better than the women," Devi whispered, nodding to a gang of kittens devouring a giant plate of pongal. I smiled and observed some women peaking through the bars on the second floor, giggling. After taking my prints, passport sized photo, and letter from the Executive of MCCSS requesting my passage, the gates were unlocked and we entered. Devi led me upstairs to the common room, where the women spend most of their day doing crafts, sleeping, playing games, or primping each other. 

All of the ladies greeted Devi, a group of Hindi women fluttering around her, "Devi-didi! Devi-didi!" For many of these ladies, Devi is their sole hope, as the only social worker in Chennai who visits the Vigilance Home who speaks Hindi. They were all prying here with questions about court dates, petitions, if she could contact their boyfriends and babies. 

She introduced me, "Kendall se mi-li-ye." And they immediately flooded upon me, pinching my face, stroking my arms, asking me questions too fast for Devi to translate.

"Ye larkee bahut sundare naa? This girl is so beautiful, no?"

"Which country bahen?" 

"Tum ka kaam kyaa ho? What is your work?"

"Kyaa tum hindi le-tee ho? Does she speak Hindi?"

"Paribar? Family? Marriage? Boyfriend?"  

  They pulled me down and engaged me in a game--the Indian version of checkers. We all clicked immediately. Over the next few weeks, every Tuesday and Friday, Devi and I would bounce our way to Santhome to visit with these ladies. We would play games, share life-stories, teach each other songs, make up silly dances--sometimes I would listen to their pains as we held hands, sorrow never needs to be translated. They spoke of their babies left in the brothels, their boyfriends far away, their sex-work, their sicknesses, their girl-fights, their loneliness--how their broker calls them in jail, how their parents were murdered in religious riots, how they bribe the guards to use their mobiles to call home, how they hate the prison food, how they are beaten, how they feel like dying. 

"Life achaa naheen bahen, life is no good sister" one woman, Lakshmi lamented, "come prison, life stop." Lakshmi had been in the Vigilance Home for almost two years. She got into sex-work in Mumbai when she had limited options to help get her crippled father out of debt with some slum-goondas. 

Every time I came, she would have some new infection or scary high fever. She can't walk properly anymore and has lost half her weight since being there. Despite her problems, she was more worried about her pregnant sister, who recently joined the  VH and was due soon (no one knew exactly when). Lakshmi and her sister had to deal with their health problems on their own since doctors never came to visit. They would bribe the warden and guards to sneak them tablets; I would often inquire on their behalf, telling those in charge how sick these ladies were and how pregnancies need to be carefully watched over, especially in the last trimester, but to no avail. The ladies stayed sick, and the wardens stayed indifferent to their pains. Devi told me that Hindi girls are treated the worst in the prison because of widespread prejudice Tamils have against Northerners. 

One day when I was sitting with Lakshmi, she was telling me about her boyfriend in Mumbai, how he was the same color as me.

"He's American?" I asked, grinning. 

She smiled, "Amereecain naheen bahen. But white, bahut sundare! So beautiful!"

I continued by telling her how beautiful she was, and she shook her head in disgust,

"Naheen sundare, not beautiful" She tugged at her skin. "Me black-- you white. Black--bad, white--good." The women around her clucked in acquiescence. "Me, thin. I want be fat, naa? Thin naheen sundare. Thin isn't beautiful." 

At this point I called Devi over to translate for me. I continued to tell the ladies how women in the west try to darken their skin, and how they starve themselves to be thin--because they think this is beautiful. Giggles and tisks resounded; they would ask again and again, "Kyoo? Why?" They were incredulous as to how women would actually want to have darker skin or not love their curves.

On our way back to MCCSS, I couldn't help but ponder the true malleability in societal conceptions of beauty. Coming from a woman who used to have an eating disorder, and whose close friends and family members have also struggled with self-love/body acceptance/eating and weight issues, I was literally flabbergasted by the polarity of my culture compared to theirs. Think about how ludicrous it would sound to a group of 20-something American girls if you told them that being pasty-white, having love-handles, and wearing at least three layers of cloth over your breasts was considered exquisitely beautiful. Think about how much easier our lives would be if we wore moo-moos every day and eating carbs wasn't sacrilege. 

Every morning when I open the paper, over a pot of sweet chai and biscuits of course, I am fascinated by the ads and Indian tabloids. There are ads for skin-whitening cream and snapshots of hit-movies, with voluptuous dancers lined up around a greasy hero-figure. The articles speak of how Bollywood stars are hounded about being too thin. That this or that lady is always told by her producers to eat more. "She couldn't walk the catwalk because she was swimming in her saree. A woman has to have some substance." Don't get me wrong, Indians aren't into obesity, they just like a little substance on a lady. I have a theory that it is because this is a country where people still do literally starve everyday and having the means to have a little pudge in your belly is a signal that you are well-off. Plus I have heard personally from Indian men, who are all thin as sticks, that they want something soft to cuddle up to. "See Kand? Bones aren't beautiful," a friend, Dinesh once told me while we were watching a Hindi movie.

I recollect having a conservation about ideas of beauty with Rachel, a lovely lady from Arkansas who was working at Premavasem, the orphanage earlier mentioned. We were on the train to Bangalore, sitting across from a muslim family. The mother in her black dress with her head covered in a colorful scarf, her daughter fully covered except for her eyes, even with gloves and socks despite the tepid heat. We were talking about how some folks back home view conservative cultures or religions as oppressive towards women. And certainly there is a part of me that advocates free-dress for all! Come on, man. I'm a feminist, I'm all for owning your body and working whatever club-wear you rock. But being in a place where the more covered you are, the more respect you receive, I have come to appreciate the reasoning behind modesty. 

"I mean think about it, when we 'dress-up' in the West, we don't leave much to the imagination," Rachel mused amidst the roaring train engine and intermittent wallah-drawls for dosai or masala chai, "but women here, they keep parts of themselves sacred--its like their own beautiful little secret." She continued to tell me about an article she read where a burkah-clad woman was questioned about how it feels to be oppressed by her religion and she wisely replied,

"Frankly, I feel that women in the West are oppressed in that their are treated like sex-objects by their society. People view woman in terms of their bodies and clothes instead of who they really are as humans. I will take being modest in public any day over being objectified by those around me." 

At that very moment, the little muslim girl sitting across from us who had been sharing her hot-ground nuts with us and inquiring about our countries, lifted up her black overdress to reveal an vibrantly beaded hot-pink kurta, with chiffon and intricate flower designs. She pointed to herself with pride, communicating that she did the bead-work. She was startled by the conductor calling out the next stop, sweeping her fashionable secrets up in her traditional covering--she waved with her black gloves and smiled with her eyes, following her mother out of the carriage. 

Being in a culture where the norms and expectations of women and sexuality are so mind-bogglingly opposite, where women save the most intimate parts of themselves for their private life, and being around such amazing women in the Vigilance Home who inspire me with their strength and resilience, yet who are dissatisfied with the very skin and figure that would land them on the cover of Elle magazine in the states, has made me realize, however cliche this sounds, that beauty is something you create in your mind--it is something you own. If you look outwards for validation, you will always find something to dislike, because everyone is so unique and different. Random societal norms, which cause so many awesome women to hate themselves--literally loathe their god-given figure and form, should not be the fucking baseline from which you measure yourself. So many of the internalized beauty ideals are deleterious to self-love. You have to surrender to the idea that beauty is something that you live, and practice, it is not a goal or destination and has to be embodied by your very own unique self. 

Chastity & Gold

Late one evening, in the damp belly of crooked city-canyons, I strolled hand in hand with Devi, my Indian guide and new bahen-- 'sister in Hindi'. We jumped over sludge puddles and darted out of rickshaw paths in sync, hips swaying, kicking our feet out in that subtle Indian saunter. Street goats hopsped out of our way as we stopped at a street vendor to buy ropes of fresh jasmine to braid in each other's hair in the morning. 

I watched her haggle with the wallah (vendor), she is a very slender woman-- probably the height of my 10 year-old brother and half his weight. She swims in her bright, double patterned salwar kameez, hiding her birdlike arms and legs. Despite her stature, she demands a presence in the honest, no-bull shit way she carries herself. I would imagine Taylor Swift or Dakota Fanning to have a similar voice, with such pure open heartened intonation that no one could ever wish to do them ill. She shows the world only love and when it does not reciprocate, her thin eyebrows and button nose crunch up on her specs in utter disbelief--a countenance so charming, no human is impervious. 

The jasmine vendor surrenders to her contagious goodness, offers her the right price for a handful of perfumed white blossoms--  "theek hai, challo bahen" she smiles at me, pinches my cheek, "okay, let's go sister." We hop off the crumbled sidewalk over some discarded coconuts and continue meandering. A few paces down, Devi grabs my forearm to cross the clogged street, we snake in between rickshaws and carts and camels and cars, I glance back towards the jasmine-wallah and could only make out the faint spectrum of sarees circumventing his street tarp amidst the honking and the smog. 

Devi is a staff member at MCCSS who has embraced me into her life, treating me like a long-lost friend from the moment we met. She giggles constantly and strokes my hair and lays her head on my shoulder in the train and feeds me too many chappatis and teaches me hindi and sings butchered Rihanna songs and plucks lice out of my hair--a true friend. 

Indian affection is a beautiful thing. It needs no incubation period, there is no guise-- merely honest, exuberant expression of love for human connection, the oneness that brings us all together. Once you expose your nuggets of vulnerable humanness to an Indian, showing them that you are the same at your core, they express their affinity in a deluge akin only to sisterly or motherly love in the West. 

She was walking me back to the train station, as she always did when I stayed at her apartment past dark, despite my knowing the way and it being only two blocks down. "Alone nihi bahen," she adamantly replied, wrapping a shawl over my head and shoving a third serving of rice on my plate, "finish and we go, theek hai?" Stubbornness is another ubiquitous trait of Indian woman--there is always an opportunity to impose their 'right' way of doing things, whether it be with eating, sitting, speaking, drinking, or wearing your dupatta. The pushy interferences that westerners would view as appallingly rude are just avatars of that intense affection mentioned above. 

We reached the train station and merged into the current of bodies being funneled up and down staircases to various platforms. "So much rush, na?" Devi shouted. 

"Bahut!" I replied, "too much!," shoving a man beside me. We struggled through the nightly wrestling match and perched ourselves near the 'ladies only' platform. 

Just then I heard the booming echo of the railway chai-wallah's chorus reverberate off the steel blue tented awning. "Chai garam! Chai! Chai! Chai garam! Masala chaiya!"---"Hot tea! Tea! Tea! Hot tea! Spicy tea!" I find it hard to pass up that baritone catchphrase, immediately scrummaging for my last 10 rupee note as I followed his voice down the crowded strip of cement between parallel tracks where vermin feasted. 

When I found Miss Devi again, she was squished between two plump older women busting out of their neon sarees with jaundiced skin and too many gold chains, South Indian style. They quickly made space for half my butt-cheeck--which is considered beyond ample room. I squeezed in and handed Devi her scalding paper teacup. She was in a daze--said nothing but sipped her tea slowly, holding it like an expert, with fingertips delicately fastening top and bottom lips of the cup so you don't get burnt.

"Kyaa baat hai bahen?" I asked, "What's the matter sister?" 

She sighed and murmured with tea in her cheeks, "Your Hindi makes me very happy Kand," using her new pet name for me. Indians very much struggle with the pronunciation of my name--it is either Kandle or Kenol, there's no middle ground. 

I stayed silent, observing the clucking ladies around me with faith that Devi would reply in due time. There is no place like India to teach you patience. The train was already 20 minutes late, yet no one was bothered. People drank chai, sat cross legged on the dusty ground to read the paper, tied knots of jasmine flowers in circles of silk and slick black braids, and caught up with those around them--leave it to India to find a sense of community in a city of 6 million. While it was obvious that everyone was waiting, there was no urgency in the delay, almost as if they understood this to be out of their hands. 

Things happen when they happen-- there's a bead of Hindu culture for you, the value of process, not destination. And it is true, that something I am truly learning is how to be in the present moment; Mother India demands this of us. And it seems irrationally constraining at first, the way in which your choices are limited-- you have to eat all your food, you have to cover your head and tits, you have to endure the heat, you have to wake up at 4:30am when the call of the Mosque invades your sweaty sleep. But in reality all of our life is boiled down to the simple choice of opening your heart up to new experiences or hibernating in fear. 

"You can't forget me when you go home Kand," Devi whispered as she lifted her head off my shoulder, interrupting my rumination and meeting my gaze with those caring onyx eyes. 

"Of course I won't," I replied, caught off guard by her quivering tone, "how could I?"

"We're family, na?--sisters," she cackled and slapped the back of my hand, "You come to my wedding, okay?" 

She burst out, rolling in laughter as she often did, even when the situation wasn't particularly humorous. I caught on and sputtered between giggles, "and just when is that going to be Devi-didi? Are you and Anandh going to elope?"

His name took the breath out of her--quieted down and eyes cast aside, she solemnly recounted her recent issues with her boyfriend. They had been 'seeing' each other for around 6 months now. Recently Devi took him up North to her home state, Odisha (Orissa), to meet her family, which is a very serious move in Indian relationship talk. The two hadn't seen each other in two months. He no longer called or texted; she was heartbroken. Like most Western women I know, she automatically blamed herself, "I don't know what I did wrong Kand, I thought we would get married," Devi said with a click of the tongue and a roll of her watery eyes. She twisted my hair with her bony fingers; "When we love, we give the whole heart." She paused and sniffled, "s'not so easy to find one to take it though, isn't it?" 

You must understand that the term 'boyfriend' in India is a hop, skip, and jump from the term 'fiancee'--so much so that the terms are often intermixable. When two people enter into a courtship, they seek marriage partners, that's it. And a boyfriend/girlfriend relationship entails meeting for coffee or strolling on the beach (most likely with parental chaperones) or texting each other the lyrics to a Bollywood love-song. Pre-marital one-on-one time is rare and often frowned upon if it doesn't occur in very public places. As another one of my colleagues chortled upon my inquiry with this subject-- "in India, people love chastity almost as much as they love gold," as he took a drag of his beedie, a sip of his chai,  "which is saying a lot my friend." 

For Indians, marriage is the apex of life. It is all they dream about, search for, work towards. Their penchant for familial expansion is a fascinating phenomenon; once you've had your marriage and given birth to a boy, you can practically retire socially because you have 'made it.' And until that point, every fluttering female in a saree will badger you, try to fatten you up or spread skin-whitening cream on your cheeks for beauty and consult the stars for guidance until you are happily settled.

Speaking of consulting the stars, I cannot touch on the topic of love and marriage in India without going into the common practice of arranged marriages. When Westerners hear the term, I think we envision some form of forced child marriage or people having no say in with whom they are matched. And while this more traditional version of arranged marriage is certainly still practiced in rural parts of India, as with everything in this transforming country, there is a modern, more fluid version of this concept emerging. 

"Things just kind of came together for us," a friend, Vijay, explained to me over a breakfast of aloo parota, sweet curd and masala chai. Vijay was very recently engaged, and I felt comfortable enough to ask him about the subject of arranged marriage. "We started communicating online, on a website for people looking for marriage, kind of like your dating websites in the West." He was always good at making these sorts of comparisons; as a Tamil Brahmin, the most prestigious Hindu caste, he was fortunate enough to study in the UK and is familiar with the cultural idiosyncrasies. "I checked out her profile, our stars matched and our parents were happy with the family backgrounds," he continued, stirring more sugar into his already tooth-achingly sweet chai, "so we met for coffee and now we are to be married in November." 

Arranged marriage for more affluent Indians is not as strict as we would imagine. Earlier Vijay had told me how he had met with other women before, and recognized that they were not a good match. And although his parents and family were very much involved in the prospect of marriage, with their approval meaning the world to Vijay, in the end the choice was his. He felt that this match was meant to be. His ecstatic energy was palpable, but my head was swimming with questions.

"So, does it not bother you that you guys have only known each other for such a short time? I mean you've hung out like twice. How can you be sure she is the one?"

He bobbed his head and smiled, looking at me like a naive child, not out of condescension, but with a sincere  desire to make me understand. "This is not America-- marriage is not so complicated. We both want a companion; we both want a family; we are both committed; our families get along; she is beautiful enough; that is all that matters," Vijay stated matter-of-factly with a wave of his hand. He finished the gesture by tearing off a piece of his parota, scooped it into the sugar sprinkled curd like a spoon and ate it with the expert grace of someone who has been eating with their right-hand all their life. He looked into the distance,  observing the view from the rooftop-restaurant, contemplating his decided future. 

Above us loomed a grand hindu temple dedicated to Lord Shiva, the tip of the step-wise edifice slowly emerging from the morning fog. Monkeys swung from the chipped arms of sexy-lady statues lining the temple facade down to the terrace level, strategically perching themselves above overflowing fruit stands, waiting for their chance to swoop breakfast. "Everything else we will work out in time," Vijay started again, "with guidance from our parents, we will make a happy life."

The Indian conception of marriage is obviously quite different from that in the West. They understand it as a long term, life commitment, and not a flurried, passionate romance; marriage comes first, and then, if you're lucky, love will blossom out of mutual respect. It is understood that wild romance is a thing for the youngsters, puppy love if you will. And it takes a different caliber of relationship, a more mature, realistic and grounded relationship to make a marriage. With that lens grounded in real facts of married life, they're process of arranged marriage and ornery family intrusion makes more sense. 

The truth is that modern day arranged marriages cover a lot of bases which end up unraveling many matches in the West. Once a young adult has grown out of his or her puppy love phase and they are ready to make a commitment, they seek someone who is on the very same page, ready to take that leap into the next phase of life. They make sure the two families get along, that the in-laws accept the spouse, that everyone is making money in the same playing field (cause lord knows the epicenter of cashflow, and all its refracting quarrels, can also be the nascence of a deal breaker), and most importantly, that you don't have to be wildly fanatic about your spouse because in the end, all that matters is the commitment, the willingness to get through the tough times after the honeymoon fades.

  

India lays all her cards on the table in this way-- all of her uglies and vulnerabilities and raw humanness is exposed in such visceral manifestations that it can be overwhelming and seems almost ludicrous. Because it is a crazy way to go about life, especially for someone from a culture that makes a living out of shuffling pain under the rug, to say, ' hey this shit gets rough so lets be honest about it and stake out a support network.' And every genuine Indian countenance I have encountered speaks that life is brutal but beautiful, so we should trudge on with bright smiles, compassionate heads and light hearts because it's worth it. And in this willingness to be vulnerable, India has taught me the true meaning of courage. 

I believe our fear of shame, guilt, and ugliness in every sense of the word, is the bane of many relationships and other facets of societal functioning in the West. How can we expect to live a life full of light when we can't confront the dark?  The truth is, we can't. So we fill our time with surface routines and relationships, without ever diving into murky waters, out of fear--of being rejected, of being found out, of being a vulnerable, imperfect human. 

The common pattern with people my age in the States is to fill our lives with glittering career paths instead of filling our tank with long-lasting, meaningful relationships. This is a cop-out. In this routine, we get to keep to ourselves and never truly open up to another human--we stay safe in our own glorified quest for independence. I often find myself recanting the mantra, "only make decisions for yourself, don't let anyone infringe on your lifepath." But at what point can we decide to lift the strike, and widen our avenue of possibilities to include that of another whom we care about? 

Its the biggest game of bull-shit my generation faces. We all play it off like we don't care, like were only in this life to please ourselves and that we don't need another human to fulfill us. Granted, in college, this is easy-- an almost necessary adaptation to survive in the environment of erratic interaction savoring something of romance (when I say erratic I mean belligerent).  

I can recount numerous instances when I have been talking with my girlfriends in college, or even during my internal tete'a'tete, when a chic will be brought up. We will peel back each layer, starting with her fashion sense, overall demeanor, any embarrassing drunken stories, and finally to the topic of sex. And when it is found out that she has a long term boyfriend, perhaps from high school or since freshman year, even a few months, collective sighs will billow in between clicks of judgement, always masking resent. 

Being in a relationship in college is almost like a death sentence. In my experience, all of my girlfriends who got boyfriends, except one who is a badass (you know who you are miss jack daniels infused turtle-tatt), were practically unheard of from that point forward. Either because they had no interest in going downtown, because who really wants to go downtown when you have a wonderful person you can cuddle up to all night, or because they were subsumed by his friend group. 

And it becomes a part of the single gal's pathetic superiority complex--like "I don't need a man to validate me," and "those bitches who do are insecure or weak or too scared to fend for themselves and to feel the bitter-twinge of lonely soul-searching." But deep down, we all want the same thing---to be heard, to be accepted, to have someone who understands us, who knows us and wants to be there despite all of the bullshit; someone who is willing to explore with you in this terrifying realm of commitment. 

I think a part of me hung on to the idea that college, or just my twenties in general, should be this time of great personal development. Like there are caverns only I can explore, which is valid and bears definite truth. But after all the personal, psychological spelunking, one has to come back to the surface and share what they have found in the depths. I am coming to recognize that there are some things you just can't learn about yourself until you see them reflected in the eyes of another who accepts you for you.

Devi crumpled up her teacup and tossed it on the rail-way tracks in front of us. She then glided over to the rusty faucet under a sign, 'Water Good Drink,' rinsing the masala sweetness out of her mouth and hands. She came back and instinctively linked my arm, "Puah Kand," she fluttered, readjusting my dupatta and slicking stray hair behind my ears. "Even though the men they cause us the pain, we will have it a happy life, no? Because the man and the woman--we need each other, isn't it?" She grinned brightly, throwing her head back as her bellowing cackle was swallowed by the noise of an approaching train. 

I shoved my way into the ladies coach and staked out a seat with Devi shouting Tamil commands at her fellow sareed akkas from her perch on the platform. "And Kand?" she shouted. 

"kyaa bahen?"-- " what sister?" 

"God-willing, you bring your musician-man to my wedding too, theek hai?" 

And a smile from deep within my chest tugged at my cheeks. I nodded and waved goodbye as the train lurched forward, enveloped by the tepid Chennai evening, with that contagious courage to believe in happy endings wafting into the carriage with the dust and the street chatter and the eternal smell of jasmine. 

Women and Conservation--Zooming out from the Garhwal

 

India is a place of extremes, from geographic relief to health disparity, from chaotic traffic to rigid social norms. The land and the climate reflect the dynamic social biomes of this society— the gender divide as sharp as the altitude change from dry plains to Himalayan summits. Throughout the field course with the University of Montana, women were always in the shadows of conversation, readings, and also in the villages. Yet their presence was felt immensely in the carefully tended fields, in the freshly swept village alleys, in the faces of healthy children.   

From my experience in India beyond the Himalaya, I have come to see femininity as an intensely revered, yet ironically undermined social force. Women are seen as mysterious, pure beings that need safeguarding. At the root of Indian culture is an intense respect for the mother figure as a giver and protector of life, but the harsh reality is that women are seriously devalued and face daily oppression from societal norms. 

This paper will seek to explore women's roles in conservation in the Garhwal, as well as throughout India, by providing a brief history of the status of women, identifying women's specific role in agriculture and conservation activities, over viewing the gendered nature of conservation and development, as well as extrapolating this case study to other examples of women's key roles in conservation throughout India. I seek to make the argument that empowered, participating women are essential for the healthy functioning of any ecosystem, village and society.

The history of the status of women in India is unique in that there was once a time when women held equitable status with men. During the Rig Vedic age, women had full freedom for spiritual and intellectual development; they could become educated, choose their husbands, and even lead religious activities (Hussain 2012). Women were honored as givers of life; in this regard, nature was seen to be feminine since the life of the people was seen to be intrinsically linked with the life-cycles of nature. 

Hindu's called this primordial feminine energy pakriti, literally meaning 'nature.' In their philosophy, pakriti is expressed through shakti, the divine mother, believed to be the creative power of the universe. Shakti is manifested through goddesses, Parvati and Laksmi, the feminine counterparts to gods, Shiva and Vishnu, as representations of purusha, the opposing male energy (Karshik and Sharma 2011). In the Garhwal, the worship of Nanda Devi, believed to be the physical incarnation of Parvati, or shakti, is an example of this culture’s traditional, religious understanding of femininity as represented by nature in tribal society. 

Many things contributed to the downward spiral of women's status in Indian society: feudalism, Moghul invasions introducing practices of purdah, sati, dowry, and child marriage, colonization, and globalization (Hussain 2012). There is the eco-feminist argument as presented by Merchant (1992), that patriarchy, as linked with western culture, is responsible for perpetuating themes of dominance over women and nature alike—that they have both been considered subordinates by men throughout history. On a more macro-level, one could argue that pressures faced by Garhwali women—environmental degradation, corporate manipulation, rampant poverty, and loss of village autonomy—are a result of western dominance and influence over India, as a representation of patriarchy itself.  

In conversations with experts on the area of the Garhwal, I came to understand how, in the traditional past, a mountain woman's role was particularly independent and powerful, given the dynamic livelihood of transhumant agropastoralism practiced by the villagers. When men shepherded their herds into Tibet or into the high-alpine meadows, women dictated life in the everyday village, empowering them in comparison to sedentary societies where gender roles are more distinct (Nautiyal, Rao, Maikhuri, and Saxena 2003). 

Nowadays, women are taxed with stresses similar to other villages throughout India, walking the tight-rope between burgeoning modernity and traditional subsistence. While their children are migrating to cities in search of a better education and their men are pursuing alternative livelihoods away from home, women hold down the fort in the midst of cascading top-tier tumult. During my observations and in research, I have received the impression that village folk, especially women, feel helpless to volatile forces beyond their control. They remain in the dark as to grand-scale development initiatives, infrastructural projects and beyond. As foundations for villages that have existed for thousands of years, they are simply trying to manage in the face of unexplained environmental shifts and obstinate government policies. 

Yet despite their exasperation, Garhwali women have responded to institutional oppression with inspiring vigor. The most famous example of resistance to damaging outside forces has been the 'Chipko Movement,' where, in the absence of men, women rose up together to resist corporate logging efforts by wrapping themselves around trees and singing (Zurick and Kuran 2000). Many scholars believe this movement to be the beginning of ecofeminist social activism, but a local described to me the village's conception of the women's actions as being born out of mere necessity, as opposed to a moral defiance against patriarchy, given that the lives of the women and that of their families were utterly dependent on the health of their forests (Merchant 1992). Garhwali women also initiated petitions for better representation during the creation of the state of Uttarakhand and are also focusing efforts to raise awareness about the effects of ubiquitous hydro-electric projects in the area. 

The robust activism of Garhwali women is a quintessential representation of women's sensitivity to environmental issues in action, but I argue, along with Torri (2010), that this sensitivity is born out of their roles in society as opposed to some intrinsic 'connection' to nature. In the words of Arya, Mittal and Samra, "there is hardly a [village] activity in which women play no part;"(1998:175) in general, they are responsible for production and reproduction--literally, food and babies. 

Usually, women deal with non-monetized subsistence activities such as collecting water, firewood, and fodder, managing cow dung and crop wastes, maintaining small gardens, animal husbandry, foraging for non-timber forest products, and rearing children, among other household chores (Karshik and Sharma 2011). In a project conducted by Singh and Swaminathan (2002) in Tamil Nadu, South India, they found that women play key roles in harvesting, threshing, seed selecting, winnowing, and maintaining proper storage facilities for crops, post-harvest. Chandra, Rakesh, and Kandari (2009), noted that in the Garhwal, women were responsible for almost all agricultural and household duties apart from heavy-duty land preparation, although they found that male contribution increased with altitude seeing as men closer to the plains had more job options.

Despite their vast responsibilities, most women in farming villages in India are illiterate, disempowered and overworked (Ayra 2007). On average, women work for 3,495 hours on a one-hectare farm where a man works 1,212. Women, as compared to men, provide 70% of overall agricultural labor, 60-80% in total household labor, 100% in processing basic food stuffs, 80% in food storage and transport from farm to village and 90% in water and fuel wood collection--with average days of 14-16 hours (Arya, Mittal, and Samra 1998, Rani 2004 as cited in Arya 2007).

Women's roles are the bedrock of Indian society, but their efforts are not accounted for in the grand economic or social schemes, giving them little leeway in decision making processes with regards to conservation. However, it is well known that the weight of environmental degradation is carried disproportionately by women-- the depletion of resources or of soil productivity means more drudgery and longer hours to produce less food; deforestation means longer distances for women to travel for firewood; watershed depletion/disruption increases efforts to meet household water needs (Arya, Mittal, and Samra 1998, Zurick and Kuran 2000). In the words of Zurick and Kuran (2000:197), "households cope with ecological stress by utilizing more female labor." It is cyclical—a society that devalues women undermines the main energy input for the family, weakening community resilience, enhancing vulnerability to poverty, and in turn, increasing environmental degradation with subsistence pressures. And while women's vital roles in daily maintenance of natural resources are seemingly intuitive, there is an impressive dearth of research and initiative aimed at involving women in the conservation process; for this, there are many reasons (Agarwal 2009, Torri 2010). 

For one, large scale data doesn't sufficiently account for the extent of women's involvement; they are often excluded from the census, with much of their work considered economically unviable (Arya 2007). It also seems there is a trend for data collection in India to be initiated, conducted, and answered by only men. According to Ogra (2012), who interviewed various conservation-oriented NGO's throughout India as to whether they included women's empowerment and gender issues in their project planning and implementation, many (mostly male) NGO supervisors ran under the assumption that incorporating men, as 'heads of the house,' was sufficient because gender wasn't relevant to their efforts. 

In the words of Arya (2007:210): "A basic constraint on women's access to extension in agriculture is due to the general perception that women are primarily homemakers rather than decision-making farmers." So, while many NGO's and governmental initiatives operate under the guise of 'gender equality,' in reality their efforts are often culminated into mere awareness camps that females are often unable to attend. The aforementioned assumption, however unwarranted, is a deep-rooted obstacle to women's empowerment in India (Ayra 2007, Torri 2010). 

Conservative cultural norms and insane daily workloads constrain women's participation in the public, political sphere (Agarwal 2001, Arya 2007). Women often find out about conservation projects or governmental interventions on their land by proxy of their husbands. With a lack of information on current rules or threats to their resources women are kept in the dark, often unknowingly violating rules established by park managers or village leaders and further entrenching the ideology that women are unfit to manage conservation schemes (Agarwal 2009, Pandey 2005, Torri 2010). 

 Land ownership is another huge barrier to conservation efforts. And while females can legally own land under the Indian constitution, inheritance of titles is patrilineal. The majority of women do not own land, giving them less sway over resource management and denying them access to credit (Arya 2007, Chandra, Rakesh, and Kandari 2009, Singh and Swaminathan 2002). In the words of Agarwal:

Land defines social status and political powers in the village and it structure relationships both within and outside the household. Yet for most women, effective rights in land remain elusive, even as their marital and kin support erodes and female-headed households multiply. In legal terms, women have struggled for and won fairly extensive rights to inherit and control land in much of South Asia, but in practice most stand disinherited. Few own land, even fewer can exercise effective control over it (Agarwal 1994:56).

Even though they may not control or own the land they toll, women have a high level of awareness about environmental resource management given their direct contact with water, food, and fuel sources; when these sources are threatened by environmental degradation and globalization, women recognize it as an immediate threat to their survival (Chandra, Rakesh, Kandari 2009, Karshik and Sharma 2011). Women's knowledge of the land and its nuanced patterns differs from that of men. According to Singh and Swaminathan (2002), women's involvement in seed selection has given them extensive experience in ideal growing conditions, nutritional characteristics, and productivity of specific seed species. Women also are more informed about firewood and fodder species—those that smoke or cause indigestion in the animals (Agarwal 2009). 

Research has shown that women's decision making processes in agriculture are guided by concerns with food security, whereas men are drawn to put their energies into cash crops. Similarly, women are more likely to invest in family needs when given capital (Arya 2007, Singh and Swaminathan 2002). Women’s motives are a result of their roles as caretakers of the family and the farm, the village and the environment; they must be acknowledged as key stakeholders and participants for a sustainable future.  

Numerous studies are showing how, when women's roles are seriously considered and capitalized on, conservation efforts blossom. Pandey demonstrated in the Great Himalayan National Park, Himachal Pradesh, how forming Women's savings and credit groups decreased villager’s dependence on the park’s natural resources through alternative livelihood projects. Park managers and women leaders worked together in building up a range of projects funded with money saved by micro-finance groups. They found a balance between conservation and ‘livability’ in the park zone (Pandey 2005). 

Agarwal's research in Gurjurat and rural Nepal showed that the correlation between women's involvement in forest protection groups and village councils is statistically significant to the health and improvement of surrounding forests. She stipulated that women's involvement increased forest protection because the pool of engaged citizens enlarged, women felt more responsible for the forest when they were a part of decision-making, it created a stage for women to share their knowledge of plant species, and also it helped instill a conservation ethic in children, instigating sustainable change for generations to come (Agarwal 2009).

In the words of a village woman during a conversation with Agarwal: "Just as we need both sexes to run the house so we need both sexes to protect the forest,"(Agarwal 2009:2785). If planning is essential to sustainable management of resources in the face of dynamic development, then we must look at who is at the table when decisions are being made. The recognition of women's prodigious involvement in agrodiversity is rudimentary to progress which benefits all community-members. Policies and projects must be drafted within gendered lines so that precious societal and environmental resources, women and water, forests and food, are not further marginalized. They should be owning land, and sharing wisdom and commanding presence in village councils, and organizing self-help groups, and accessing credit, and going to school, and reducing their back-breaking labor, and singing, and growing, and cuddling with their healthy babies, and making informed choices about their bodies, their food, their land, and most of all, being revered in their thriving communities as givers and protectors of life. Women not only 'hold up half the sky,' they are a current for ecological energy from soil to mouth to compost—and they must be a part of the process.

Works Cited

Agarwal, B. 2009. Gender and Forest Conservation: The Impact of Women's Participation in Community Forest Governance. Ecological Economics 68:2785-2799

Agarwal, B. 2001. Participatory Exclusion, Community Forestry, and Gender: An Analysis of South Asia and a Conceptual Framework. World Development 29(10):1623-1648. 

Agarwal, B. 1994. A Field of One's Own: Gender and Land Rights in South Asia. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, U.K. 

Arya, S.L., S. P. Mittal and J.S. Samra. 1998. Rural Women and Conservation of Natural Resources:Traps and Opportunities. Gender, Technology, and Development 2(2):167-185.

Ayra, S. L. 2007. Women and Watershed Development in India: Issues and Strategies. Indian Journal of Gender Studies 14(2):199-230.

Chandra, Kandari, and Rakesh. 2009. Role of Rural and Tribal Women in Conservation: Case Study Nanda Devi. Environment & We: An International Journal of Science & Technology :29-34

Hussain, F. 2012. Women's Empowerment: A Historical Profile in India. The Daily Times. Published online 11, August. Accessed July 3, 2013. see http://www.dailytimes.com.pk/default.asp?page=2012%5CO8%5C11%5Cstory  

Karshik, B. and R. Sharma. 2011. Role of Women in Environmental Conservation. Excel International Journal of Multidisciplinary Management Studies 1(2):162-167. 

Merchant, C. 1992. Radical Ecology: The search for a livable world. New York and London: Routledge, Chapman & Hall, Inc.

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