3.5
It's very difficult to rate this book because while I really loved reading about Kishwar Naheed's life, tribulations and rebellions, I did struggle with the translation. A LOT. The original memoir titled, ''Buri Aurat Ki Katha'' wasn't available so I had to settle for the translation.
Incredibly well-read, opinionated, headstrong and fiercely independent, Kishwar Naheed is a woman who asserts her identity in a male-dominated profession and society, and dares to question the long-held norms, values and ideas that continue to put men on a pedestal and attach little importance to the desires and ambitions of a woman.
In my country woman has no identity, she is identified by her relationships with others – she is a sister, wife, mother, daughter – but is she anything on her own?
All her life she cooks the man's choice of food, she wears clothes which please the man, jewellery, she gets dolled up, meet people - all within the moorings of her husband's will and permission. As for her own wishes, she is a stranger to them and how they taste.
And if, God forbid, a woman does assert her identity, she is deemed a ''bad woman''. What's even worse is that most women have accepted and adopted misogynistic ideas and values.
But here even women don't understand each other, rather they don't believe in their own individuality. In their opinion they are to serve others. Their belief in themselves and their self-respect is tied up in their relationships with men. They don't believe that they alone are worthy of respect. They feel that the be-all and end-all of their lives is in following the moral and emotional guidelines established by men.
She talks about the stifling oppression during the time of Zia-ul-Haq's Martial Law. I hate Zia-ul-Haq with a fiery passion, but reading this book made me despise him even more, if that's possible. Women and minorities suffered tremendously during his military regime - horrible horrible times.
When blind Safia Bibi declared: 'I have been raped. I am pregnant. I don't know the name of the rapist,' she got a slap on the face from the Shariah Court. Her sentence was 20 lashes and 14 years' imprisonment.
During the 14 years from 1979 to 1993, husbands sent their wives to jail on allegations of Zina, so they could marry a second time without hindrance. Brothers accused sisters of Zina,and in gobbling up their inheritance felt their manhood vindicated. Fathers got their daughters accused of Zina to prevent them from marrying on their own will so that they could lay their hands on the dowry which would make their own lives comfortable.
Kishwar Naheed is not afraid to expose people's hypocrisy and double standards, she talks about the innumerable challenges a woman faces when she decides to set foot outside her house to work. Yes, times have changed but not for all Pakistani women. As sad and troubling as it is, the various issues that Kishwar Naheed talks about are still very much relevant and prevalent today.
This memoir is also a love letter to literature - poetry in particular. It is poetry that helped Kishwar Naheed cope; people were never there for her but her pen and books were. She also talks about her association with radio and the resulting friendships with great affection. I couldn't help feeling sad about the state of radio today when I read this:
The atmosphere on radio at the time was a very cultured one, steeped in learning and literature. All the producers were poets or writers and appreciated the fundamentals of music.
A book that voiced so many of my own thoughts, views and frustrations should have gotten a five-star rating from me but this a translated work, and the translation (by Durdana Soomro) was rather disappointing. The choice of words and phrasing could have been better, it just felt a bit too plain and dull to me. Another thing I struggled with - I don't think this was the translator's fault - was the disjointed narrative.
I do highly recommend this memoir, if you are looking for a Pakistani feminist voice. And reading this book makes me want to read more of her books and poetry.