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Namsi Khan |
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Mukhtar Mai Married |
When I first read Mukhtar Mai’s story several years ago I immediately felt the same influx of emotions I always do when I read about a brutal case of injustice; vehement anger, thoughts of vengeance and the bitter aftertaste of my own ungratefulness with life. I typically force myself to shift this surge of emotion to the periphery of my mind through a technique of exhaling, gritting my teeth, not doubting the existence of a benevolent God, and refocusing on my life’s basic trivia. However, when I recently read that Mukhtar had got married her story began to relentlessly invade my thoughts once more.
In 2002 Mukhtar Mai was gang-raped by four men on the orders of a tribal council in the Punjab village of Meerwala, in Pakistan and was paraded through her village, bloody and naked. The council claimed to settle allegations made by the local Mastoi clan, a tribe much more powerful than her own, who had accused her 12 year old brother of being in the company of one of their women. This, according to the Mastoi, brought immense shame to the clan’s honour and was a sin which had to be avenged. The tribal council called for the rape of Mukhtar to even the score. It came to light later that the men who had raped Mukhtar had in fact sodomised her brother and had fabricated the accusation against him to cover up their sexual attack.
Mukhtar refused to be a casualty of injustice and whilst the majority of “honour crime” victims struggle with feelings of suicide, seeing a bleak and merciless future ahead, she responded by taking her rapists to court. She eventually won her arduous 3 year legal battle and was awarded 500,000 rupees in compensation. In an incredible act of altruism she used her compensation monies to fund two separate elementary schools and a women’s shelter in her village. Illiterate herself, she enrolled into the girl’s school recognising education as the tool to carry out her fight and has gone on to win international acclaim for her efforts to promote women’s rights.
When I initially read this case I marveled at how an illiterate Pakistani woman raised in poverty could find the inner strength to fight so vehemently for her right to justice. I found myself envying her strength and sense of self-worth. Despite facing regular death threats for being the voice of the poor and for exposing the extent of corruption within elitist groups in Pakistan, Mukhtar refuses to leave her village or give up her work. Today, seven years on, March 17th 2009, Mukhtar wed the police constable who worked on her rape case. Nasir Abbas Gabol, although already married, chose Mukhtar to be his second wife and although she debated whether her arrival may cause the first wife heartache, she accepted the proposition when Gabol threatened to divorce his first wife if Mukhtar refused.
On the scales of justice I don’t think the marriage weighs very heavily and I can’t help but scoff at life’s feeble attempt to rectify its offense against this extraordinary woman. But I tell myself, a union like this isn’t common for victims like Mukhtar. A law that demands rape victims to bring forward four separate male eye-witnesses to confirm the crime leaves very little chance for conviction. Those women who don’t take their own lives following these heinous crimes resort to lives of celibacy and isolation. Mukhtar’s marriage may not be sprinkled with the zest of romance but it is a marriage nonetheless, a union where she may find comfort, love and acceptance.
As the modest bride stares at me from the internet photograph I feel myself swell with sisterly pride. Mukhtar is a woman from my own birthplace; we are of the same soil, the same blood. If destiny had chosen a different route our lives could so easily have been each others. My dreams could have been hers and hers mine. As I look into her eyes her resilient strength stirs up an uninvited emptiness in my heart. I have so much yet I don’t see myself as successful. I press the print button on my screen and pin Mukhtar’s photograph over my desk. She is a successful woman, by anybody’s standard. I won’t let myself forget her, not this time.
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