Gender equality: On hold, forever?

At two ends of India, in recent weeks, gender inclusivity has been a part of recent events— sometimes the provocation, sometimes evoked in other contexts. In neither Tamil Nadu nor Nagaland is it possible to regard the issues raised in isolation of others.

In Nagaland, over the last few months, there has been debate about the Constitutional provision providing 33% reservation for women in urban local self-government. There have been two explanations proffered for this. One is that traditional Naga society is resisting the accession of women to decision-making institutions. This is the version that national dailies have reported widely, leading to a great deal of ‘even in the North-east’ commentary. The second, more complicated concern ties this into Nagaland’s constitutional special status and to the ambivalence around the Naga Peace Accord.

The 73^rd Amendment had not been implemented in Nagaland and in 2012, the Naga Mothers’ Association petitioned the Supreme Court to have the 33% reservation for women enforced in Nagaland. In 2016, the Supreme Court ruled in their favour and the state government called for local elections. Since then, this has been debated in Nagaland, in private and public venues and in the columns of regional newspapers.

The Naga HoHo, which is the apex tribal authority, contends that extending the reservations to Nagaland would go against Naga customary law. Feminists from Nagaland have pointed out that Naga customary law deprives women of land and property rights, which then translates into lack of access to other capital. They also point to the fact that the customary law is unwritten and open to interpretation by village councils that usually have no women. Men dominate tribal and village leadership and in fact, every report points out that only one woman has represented Nagaland in Parliament in seven decades.

This is not to say there is no support for the reservations among Nagas and some believe that with a little time, both concerns can be addressed— making the case for the reservations as well as the concern about eroding Nagaland’s Special Status within the Indian constitution. There are also those who challenge the idea of traditional institutions and that the political rights guaranteed under the Constitution do not apply to Nagaland.

In Tamil Nadu, in January as young people occupied Marina Beach for several days demanding that the ban on jallikattu be revoked, commentators found that resentment against Central interference. Jallikattu’s importance is in some part related to its ritual role in affirming masculinity. (See this and this.) A resurgent Tamil nationalist sentiment pervaded the protests, apparently cutting across class and caste divisions. Tamil Nadu’s oldest political concern—state autonomy—seemed to be relevant again.

However, a few weeks later, as the state Chief Minister was said to have resigned beseeching Sasikala Natarajan to take his place, public sentiment took a 180-degree turn with people asking for President’s Rule in the state. The Chief Minister took back the resignation, claiming he signed under pressure. As the impasse dragged on, Sasikala began to claim that her gender was the reason for the crisis. Comparing herself to the late J Jayalalithaa, she said women in politics have to face many obstacles and opponents— which is true. But to be fair, in the Tamil Nadu case, Ms. Natarajan’s gender is less of an issue than other factors— her corruption cases, her lack of a popular mandate, her background political role in Jayalalithaa’s years, her mafia-style network and even her class background.

Like Nagaland, Tamil Nadu is a state with a separatist history. The idea of a separate Dravidian state evolved parallel to the idea of Pakistan as a third sovereign state in the subcontinent. Even after independence, the demand for a separate state hovered in the rhetoric of the Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK) until the early 1960s when it was dropped officially. Since then, both Dravida parties have been in the forefront of any discussion for protecting state powers and rights. The Sarkaria Commission to re-examine centre-state relations was set up in response to a conclave of opposition Chief Ministers to discuss central interference in their states.

More than any other dimension, gender relations and associated customs, practices and values define culture. In a time of crisis or conflict, and we are rarely far from either, prevalent gender norms become the sanctum sanctorum of community identity. This is why sexual violence in conflict is such a powerful weapon. It physically hurts victims but it traumatises a community for more than one generation. When an outsider appears to be or is depicted as interfering with gender-related practices, there is a new energy to the resistance. This is true whether it is in the context of the British abolishing Sati, or communal violence, or banning jallikattu, or implementing a Constitutional arrangement in a state whose integration has not been entirely settled.

In both Nagaland and Tamil Nadu, cultural identity is a political issue and the relationship with the Union remains contentious. There are no two opinions that maximum state and cultural autonomy are desirable. Any integration with the Indian Union that Tamil Nadu has experienced has come by choice and anything resembling imposition has been stoutly pushed back. Despite the 2015 Peace Accord, in Nagaland too, even a suspicion of Central encroachment on the state’s special status or customary law is unacceptable. In both instances, the possible upsetting of a gendered applecart seems to set off anxiety about identity and encroachment on state or cultural autonomy. This is consistent with their regional histories.

The mixing of gender politics with debates about federalism and autonomy results in muddying both questions. Women’s right to participate in politics and be represented also by women becomes subservient to discourses on identity, culture and political autonomy. Another interpretation may be that those who are troubled by the political activism of women make nationalism an excuse for postponing inclusion. The bottomline is this: women learn that their rights always have to wait their turn.

Gender equality demands are never made in isolation of other politics. The everyday push-pull of politics; longer-term structural inequalities like caste, class or race; struggles for autonomy or land rights that outlast generations, and catastrophic events play themselves out and create the context for feminist campaigns. Time and again, across the world, women are told to wait. First, we will settle the question of class/caste/race/whatever, and then, you can have your turn. First, we will resolve this old conflict between our peoples, and then, in peace-time, you can talk to us about rights. First, we will finish developing our economy, and then when the growth rate has stabilised at X percent, you can tell us how you feel about property rights and access to capital. Be a good girl, let others have their fill and then take your turn politely. 

What this suggests is that we are getting ahead of ourselves in our advocacy for measures like reservations, property rights, livelihood training or equal pay. What we need to be selling is the idea that gender equality is as important as other kinds of equality. That equality is as important as growth. That justice matters and inclusivity is an end in itself. That women and other genders are also people— human beings with human rights. The first battle was actually far more fundamental than we realised— it was a battle to say we should not have to wait in line. For change, all wheels need to move in tandem and all concerns regarded as equally important.