How I Became A Feminist In A Western Country After Having My Daughter

Pictured with my daughter, Maelo

Feminism was not even on the radar of my vocabulary when I was growing up in Asia. Come to think of it, the concept of equality was not even an atom of a thought in my everyday life.

Girls were taught to obey men from a young age by watching their mothers serve their fathers. At family gatherings the children were served first, then the men would take their places after the children had vacated the dining table and, lastly, the women would eat what was left. The men had the lion’s share of the food as the children were rationed in what they were served so as to leave enough for the men.

Girls and boys were able to play together freely until the girls started their periods. A ceremony referred to as ‘attending age’ was held to announce to the community that the girl had become a woman and, thereby, had to play by different rules in contrast to the carefree playtimes pre-attending age.

I was a rebel of sorts, not always being able to get my own way but I did win the battle over not wanting to have an ‘attending age’ ceremony. I found it hideous and embarrassing that people should know that you were bleeding between your legs. For the amount of rules about being modest as an Indian female I did think it was immodest to have your ‘attending age’ announced to everyone (which no doubt is done with such fanfare because it signifies that you are ready to make babies now).

Alas, inverse logic did not stop the ‘aunties’ from showing their utter disappointment in my behaviour. When I wore shorts the relatives would comment on how wearing such attire would lead to ‘loose behaviour’. Oh my goodness, it was endless.

Wearing a dress above the knees was also considered as ‘loose behaviour’. I thought I had it hard till one day I got talking to a Sikh girl at school who told me that her mother was giving her sister-in-law grief for wearing panties instead of shorts as underwear. The former was considered as irreligious and provocative.

As a teenager, my life was a swirl of negotiating my independence away from my culture that was suffocating me. That I had ‘become Westernised’ was a common slight. ‘Becoming Westernised’, as all Indian feminists know, translates into you being assertive of your rights as a female which is a big no-no in our culture. The premise is that no man will want to marry an independent woman. The end goal, of course, is for every daughter is to get her married off before she loses her virginity pre-marriage.

I remember hearing about the ‘bra-burners’ and occasionally hearing names of Western feminists such as Gloria Steinem. It all seemed a far away occurrence though and a world away from the way I was living. Looking back now I realise that I saw feminism as a white woman’s privilege. It never dawned on me that I could become a feminist, and that I could choose that path freely.

Things started to change for me when my daughter was born 17 years ago. Even though I had been living in Britain for about 20 years before she was born I had never bothered to ponder on feminism. Something changed as my daughter was growing up. My maternal instinct was to let her be herself and to explore life without stifling her with cultural rules.

Soon I was challenging my own upbringing and was beginning to see how cultural thinking had shaped my own life without me realising it. Feminism, on the contrary, gave me the power to makes changes to my life. I began to read books by feminist but these were mainly written by White feminists. I wanted something, a brand of intersectional feminism, to help me shape my own views.

I felt very isolated and spent hours on the internet looking for like minded mothers. I found a website called The Motherhood Initiative for Research and Community Involvement(MIRCI) from which I learnt that my style of mothering with all the aspirations and hopes attached had a name: “feminist mothering”.  Journals published by MIRCI include ones on Indian feminism and mothering; and experiences of women of colour living in Western countries.

Having the words to describe what I was feeling and wanting for my daughter propelled me from being ignorant about feminism to becoming a feminist mother.  It was an exhilarating feeling because I did not have to consider what other people thought. I was free to make and unmake the rules of my life which served as the platform from which I practised feminist mothering.

Since then I have become extremely interested in Indian feminism and intersectional feminism because my daughter is mixed race – half White and half Indian. The fact that there are millions of Indian feminists existing around the world is a fact that I celebrate. This is why I so badly wanted to write for ‘Feminism In India’ which is where this blog post was originally published. 

Being an Indian feminist in a Western country is not an easy existence. It can be a lonely experience. Apart from sexism there is racism to contend with so I am sometimes fighting on two fronts. I despise the stereotypical images that English people have of Indian women, the most irritating one being that we are subservient by nature. I also get fed up being asked whether I can dance well. I am not a Bollywood actress. I am not a dancing, docile woman. There is still much work to be done to get intersectional feminism recognised and I will carry on fighting.

What Asian girls are taught

I am often astounded by the similarities between the problems of Indian and African women. Reading this list of constraints reminds me of how Indian girls are brainwashed into being 'nice girls' from an early age. 

Calling me a “F…ing Paki” does NOT make me feel like I am enabling your right to free speech

Somehow I don’t think the founding fathers of the concept of Free Speech had insults and slurs in mind when they put their highly intellectual minds together and came up with it. At the very minimum, racist slurs defy any pigeon hole, square peg in a round hole and logic of equating words that are meant to wound and defile with the historical beginnings of Free Speech in 1948 after the two World Wars. 

The right to spread hate and incite disorder of any kind against a group in society is NOT Free Speech or a right to Freedom of Expression.

I have a right to say this because I don’t like being a victim of racism. Being called a ‘F..ing Paki’ is not a fun way to pass a moment in a day or moments in a year. 

Fortunately, or unfortunately, the mass bulk of the mantle of racist behaviour has passed from those who hate ethnic minorities to those who, post Brexit, now hate white people who come from Eastern European countries. This twisted logic of racism has not, however, absolved me from its’ claws.

Logic doesn’t come into it anymore. There is a simple reason for this. Racism has no logic and no standing or status in society. 

Equivating it to ‘Free Speech’ is a claim by the far Right/Alt Right to legitimise their prejudices. 

The analogy I draw is akin to dousing a badly baked Apple crumble pie with expensive Custard sauce from Waitrose hoping no one will notice the bad taste. Layering racist language with a claim to free speech isn't the same. It’s worse, in fact, because there is a human being at the receiving end of these slurs. While you can spit out a pie you can’t spit out an experience of racism which is debilitating to one's being.  

Don’t ‘White select’ my experience of racism

I recently watched Piers Morgan on TV lecturing/hectoring two Black men about how what they think and experience as racism is, simply, not true in his esteemed White opinion. Piers Morgan was speaking over the men in what was meant to have been a discussion on the Raheem Sterling issue. 

Sadly, what did Piers is no different from what lots of other White people do and that is to either shut down a discussion by a person of colour on their lived experience of racism or to select what they think is racism based on their White view.

Let me give you an example, when I talk about how I am often ignored in nice shops (boutiques) White people will tell me how it was probably because the shop assistants had not noticed me or, even worse, because I wasn’t dressed well enough to be considered a serious shopper. This is a prime example of self-selecting or censoring my lived experience of racism. Another name for it is ‘Whitesplaining’. 

Racism is never a one-off act either which is what Raheem Sterling is trying to get across. It is a product of a culture of representations, stereotyping and negative framing. 

The tweet at the top of this post is a prime example. Inherent in the statement is the belief that all immigrants get a free ride in the UK and that we have so-called privileges if we are people of colour. It refers to Nadiya Hussain, winner of the 2015 ‘Great British Bake Off’, who has gone on a tour of Asia to discover some of her Asian roots for a BBC programme. 

The tweeter implies that he could have done the same at the BBC’s expense if he had some Asian DNA. He hasn’t given a moment’s thought to the fact that Nadiya is a star because she won a national TV prize based on a talent. The tweeter has simply based his gripe based on skin colour that arises from his negative stereotyping.  

Now tell me that is my imagination!

‘Whitesplaining’ aggravates and upsets people like me. To use another term it is ‘Gaslighting’. No problem can ever be solved while such psychological coercion and manipulation is used. With racism on the rise it is more imperative than ever to pay attention to what racism looks like and sounds like. 

A culture clash with my mixed race daughter over a dog

This is an incident that happened in 2018 and I am still scouring the streets for a dog which has caused no end of misery in my household. My daughter, Maelo, was followed by a dog from the end of our street to our home in the summer. We live in a neighbourhood over run by cats. Dogs? A rare sight for some unknown reason.

Maelo called me from the street in bewilderment over this dog. She was convinced that it was a stray needing rescuing. I stepped out and examined the dog. It seemed incredibly excitable and was literally bounding around us. Maelo wanted to bring it into our place and look after it till it was ‘rescued’. It’s been decades since I have had any personal contact with a dog.

Instead of immediately agreeing to her request, I drew upon my childhood growing up in Asia where dogs were allowed to roam the neighbourhood till their owners returned from work and reclaimed them off the streets. My own father would walk around the streets, lead in hand, calling out to our dog. Most dog owners did this. The hour between 6 to 7pm was the ‘dog hour’. Quite often it took longer because the dogs weren’t keen on coming back and preferred roaming the streets with their pals. It all seemed sensible especially when I compare this practice to the high dog walking rates being charged currently. Anyway, I digress.

Drawing upon my personal experience I declared that the dog was probably enroute back home and did not need any saviours. Maelo counter declared that she was going to call an “English friend” for an opinion because this was “not Asia”. Her friend did not answer her call and the dog sped off at that moment.

Maelo was distressed and adamant that the dog was lost. In the meantime, our ‘rescue cat’ which officially moved in with us on the day of Margaret Thatcher’s funeral (I kid you not) was cowering at the window watching all of this. This cat lives in a semi-permanent state of anxiety after having been abused for two years prior to becoming Maelo’s pet. Bringing a big dog in would have caused it major trauma. 

Minutes later the ‘English friend’ returned the call and surmised that the dog was a stray because “dogs aren’t allowed out on their own in this country”. In that instant I felt the weight of a culture clash which was further compounded by Maelo’s accusing look and distress. We went out looking for the dog straight away but couldn’t find it. No ‘lost’ posters have been put up either in the area since. The photo accompanying this blog is something that I took off the internet after Googling ‘Golden Dog’. Sigh, it will be another stick for my daughter to beat me with. 

I have spent decades putting time and effort integrating into British culture and all it took was for a dog to propel me back to those days when I thought ‘Marylebone’ was pronounced as ‘Mary-Lee-Bone’. The perils of being an immigrant.