Sexual Harassment and the Public Woman

The frenzied pace of harassment, gang rape and subse quent suicides in Bangladesh during the last few months has made it difficult to keep track of the specifics of each incident. Fahima, Rahima, Indrani, Sabina — these names and the horrific events associated with them have begun to blur into one another. There are also countless other women — like the two garment workers who were raped in their rented rooms in early March — whose names fail to find mention in news reports.

However, one of the most distressing aspects of the reports is the number of women and girls who have felt compelled to commit suicide in the aftermath of a violent and traumatic encounter. Their recourse to suicide could very well be the result of cultural constructions of honour and shame which do not allow for the acceptance of such 'tarnished' women into mainstream society. As an explanation, this provides a partial and tidy answer.

However, the path to suicide is one which defies easy categorisation. Moreover, for women who are not raped but suffer traumatic harassment, there are few social or legal options available for them to escape their condition. Conventional explanations of 'shame' suicides fail to explain, for instance, why in her suicide note Simi Banu wrote that the kind of harassment she had to endure was "worse than being raped and left by the wayside". It could very well be that shifts in social, economic and legal discourses in the past two decades have allowed women like Simi to 'opt out' of mainstream cultural ideologies of womanhood. By the same token, it is precisely because some women are not willing to submit unquestioningly to notions of purity and pollution that violence against them has taken on new, extensive forms.

For several reasons, an analysis of Simi's case illuminates many of the murky issues in this debate. First, she was a professional woman who was explicit in her rejection of the narrow, constraining 'traditional' female identity: she sought a broader social identity as a human being deserving of dignity. Second, she was never physically assaulted, yet she committed suicide. Third, at least according to available evidence, the incident did not involve any form of political retribution.

A familiar storyline

Simi Banu's suicide has thrown into relief disturbing but all-too-familiar questions about the harassment of Bangladeshi women, especially of that working women, in public spaces. The case highlights the treacherous social environment working women have to negotiate daily and also reminds us, quite tragically, of the precarious access to police protection. Under these dire circumstances, it is more urgent than ever before to ask what constitutes sexual harassment, and what legal and social measures can be taken to combat such behaviour. Simi's was not an isolated case, nor will it be the last of its kind. The storyline is familiar even if the details differ. However, the details of Simi's story are important to recount since they underscore an implicit 'patriarchal collusion' between law enforcement authorities, the young men concerned, and the male community elders in their approach to Simi's predicament.

A student of the Narayanganj Art Institute, Simi lived with her parents and three siblings in Khilgaon, Dhaka. By all accounts, she was a vivacious, independent and outspoken young woman who was also talented and ambitious. Simi helped supplement her family's limited income by decorating wedding venues and working as a fashion designer for a firm. The nature of her work forced her to keep somewhat irregular hours, and she often returned home 'late' (that is, after dark), and usually unaccompanied. According to published reports, her 'late' hours and her freedom of movement caught the attention of a group of young men — Doel, Khalil, Mofazzel and others — who spared no opportunity to communicate their disapproval of her behaviour. Denizens of a local general store, this group incessantly taunted Simi, casting aspersions on her character and making remarks with sexual undertones. Simi's usual response was to ignore these provocations, which however became increasingly threatening and intimidating.

On the evening of 21 December 2001, Doel and his friends are reported to have gone further than usual with their taunts. "Where did you (tui) get so much freedom, to stay out late at night? You need a good beating." One of them pulled at her dupatta. When Simi's father and brother subsequently protested, the three insulted the father and beat up the brother, Sumon. Later, in consultation with the neighbours, including relatives of the boys, it was decided a shalish would be held on 23 December to sort out matters. However, on the morning of 22 December, Doel, Khalil and several other men, armed with guns, went to Simi's residence and began to berate her once more about her "promiscuity". Apparently unable to withstand such humiliation in front of her family, Simi at one point slapped Doel. The gang left soon afterward but only after threatening to throw acid on Simi and kill Sumon. Simi in turn threatened to lodge a case against them.

That afternoon, Sub-Inspector Bashar of Khilgaon police station showed up at Simi's residence, accompanied by Doel, Khalil and another local resident, Ripon. SI Bashar allegedly refused to hear what Simi had to say in her defence and is said to have told Simi's father that, "If you don't sort things out, I'll have to take away your daughter in handcuffs. If women are on the streets, men are bound to pass a few comments. But that doesn't mean your daughter has the right to lay her hands on a man. Does this mean men and women are equal?" The following evening (23 December) Simi returned from work to find local elders, including some relatives of the young men in question, gathered at her residence, preparing for a shalish. Before formal proceedings could begin, some of the elders, in an altercation with Simi, made it apparent that they blamed her entirely for the turn of events. Frustrated, Simi retired to her room. Later that evening, after writing a short note, she consumed insecticide and ended her life.

A case of unnatural death was lodged in the Khilgaon police station. Simi's father also lodged a case against SI Bashar and the young men mentioned in the suicide note for inciting his daughter to commit suicide. After an initial period of inaction, in response to pressure from women's group and the media, SI Bashar was suspended and eventually placed in custody. The men of the mohalla remain free.

Voices from the grave

It is paradoxical but perhaps not surprising that the voices of the powerless are heard more clearly after their deaths. Death offers a different kind of safety, cruelly enough. To take an example from India, the suicide of High Court Advocate Sangeeta Sharma in Andhra Pradesh, India, on 15 June 2000, due to alleged sexual harassment by fellow lawyers, is illustrative. It indicates that the problem is not one of powerlessness in a straightforward manner. The Sharma case provides a critical reminder of how social power dynamics, in a highly gendered form, are played out to induce silence. Sharma sought legal assistance from a women's group but refused to divulge in public the names of those harassing her, fearful of any reprisals on her and her young child. Unable to alter the situation of harassment she faced, Sharma ultimately committed suicide. She did, however, leave behind evidence of grave misconduct on the part of fellow lawyers and senior advocates. As with Simi, the victim of harassment felt protection and justice could only be attained in death.

In many respects, Sharma's and Simi's cases are similar. Like Sharma, Simi was not weak in a conventional sense. She was a strong, independent, and educated person who was aware of her rights under the law. She had sought advice from a women's organisation. She threatened to lodge a case with the police. But as a working woman from a lower middle class background, she did not wield much social or economic power. The police not only did not protect her rights as a citizen, a worker or a woman but in the person of SI Bashar threatened to turn its frightening power against her. Local community assistance was not forthcoming either — in fact, it was firmly in favour of 'the boys from the mohalla'. Simi's immediate family could offer little but moral support, and even that was withdrawn toward the end. In the circumstances, Simi could hardly take threats of acid attacks and possible harm of family members lightly.

Nevertheless, Simi refused to be a silent victim, even in death. In her short but poignant suicide note, she states clearly how her tormentors had made her life unbearable to the point that, "[It was] worse than raping a woman and leaving her on the road. That's why it's no longer possible for me to tolerate such insults and go on living." That she implicated certain individuals by name indicated that Simi held out some hope of getting justice, even if it had to be posthumous. Simi intended her suicide to be interpreted as act of protest and resistance, and a (desperate) means of capturing social attention. She ended her note by stating that hers was a sacrifice made to save other women from such an awful predicament.

Available statistics indicate that the number of female suicide cases in Bangladesh has increased dramatically in the last few years. Simi's death only underscores this point and forces us to ask: Under what economic and social conditions does suicide become a woman's only available recourse for reprieve, protection and protest? The simple answer is that this condition is reached when no legal or social redress is any longer available to the individual.

Before examining the legal aspects of the case, it is worth trying to understand the everyday social reality Simi inhabited. She lived in a city with a highly contradictory environment, one in which Valentine's Day has come to be celebrated with unexpected fervour (and consumerism) and couples can be seen wandering hand-in-hand through the Boi Mela and other places. Moreover, on a national scale, women are exhorted to make a difference to the development of the nation, and the government (on paper, at least) promotes women's rights as human rights. Yet this is also the city in which a young woman can be literally hounded to death simply for going about her business, for making a living. Or a female student like Badhon can be sexually assaulted in public, as happened during the millennium celebrations on the Dhaka University campus, and later be blamed for inciting the attack – because she was "out so late".

Where young women are concerned, public and private spheres constantly seep into each other, and private behaviour is invariably subject to public scrutiny and collective morality. In this way, community (samaj) opinions regulate and reinforce dominant 'constructions' of femininity. One of the elders at the shalish gathering just before Simi's death is said to have berated her: "This is all your fault. We have daughters too. Why isn't anyone talking about them?" No one was talking about them because, unlike Simi, they conformed to certain social codes and norms. Simi's crime was to be young, single and female, and out in public, unescorted, "after dark." Like Badhon before her, she had transgressed culturally acceptable boundaries of the gendered division of public spaces that mark the respectable woman from the promiscuous one. From the perspective of Doel, Bashar and others, she was literally out of place. Therefore, she was no longer entitled to the protection afforded to "respectable" women.

This association between the public woman and promiscuity particularly implicates working-class women, as any female garment worker knows all too well. Indeed, garment workers are the most vulnerable of all working women. The street – urban public space coded male – can be an extremely dangerous and intimidating space for the average female garment worker. Perceived 'low' social status (which translates into lack of social protection) combined with often very late working hours and inadequate transport facilities, exposes them to all sorts of insecurity and harassment on the streets. The conditions of garment work give a kind of license to young men, making garment workers 'fair game' for male attention. Only in March, two young workers in Ashuliya living in rented quarters had their rooms broken into by the landlord's younger brother and his friends. The women were dragged outside, gang raped and left unconscious on the road. As of writing, the two workers are in "safe custody" after having tried to lodge a case under the Women and Children (Prevention of Repression) Act and reportedly finding officials unwilling to record the case or undertake medical examinations in time. Notably, these women remain nameless even in newspaper reports (perhaps they chose to remain anonymous although it is not clear how much choice women have in this matter).

This may have been an extreme example, but the sexual harassment of garment workers has been a regular feature since the inception of the industry. It is only very recently, in the aftermath of incidents of sexual harassment of middle class women, that the issue has generated any sustained publicity. From a distance and in an abstract sense, garment workers are considered national heroines, for they help generate the largest share of foreign revenues for the country. Up close, they are subject to constant humiliation for being "public" women who have to stay out at night. Indeed, it is a cruel irony that work – making a living – is not a legitimate reason for women to be in public and to stay out late in one of the poorest countries of the world. Of course a small number of highly visible women from affluent families frequently escape the limits of such ideologies of protection. Their class status, and their ability to travel around in the enclosed space of cars, confers on them a degree of protection; it allows these highly successful bankers, lawyers, professors and business persons to pursue their professions more or less unimpeded by such concerns.

What the law says

What legal options were open to Simi? How does one prosecute such cases? To answer these questions, we need to determine the nature of the 'crimes' committed by Doel, Bashar and others. They were responsible for a series of acts, presumably not all of them legally actionable. Was this a case of sexual harassment, pure and simple? After all, the men in question never actually physically harmed Simi. In the end she took her own life. Does Simi's experience count as a 'classic' case of sexual harassment when there was no actual attempt made to assault her? Or can it be 'dismissed' as eve-teasing, in a 'boys will be boys' attitude? Was the crime actually sexual in nature and intent — that is, was the harassment primarily about the inappropriate expression of sexual desire? Or might there be a more nuanced power struggle taking place over the appropriate relationship between the sexes? The answers to such questions are not necessarily clear-cut. We are faced with a certain amount of ambiguity in a situation where unemployed and bored young men loitering in the streets have nothing better to do than taunt young women whose presence on the streets highlights the latter's ability to make a living.

One way or the other, Simi's was a case of harassment, sexual or otherwise. Legal definitions of sexual harassment vary widely. In some countries, it is defined narrowly and refers only to unwanted sexual advances or conduct. Legislation in other places is much more comprehensive. Notably, the bulk of sexual harassment laws concern the question of workplace conduct. However, for working women in Bangladesh, harassment in public is an added occupational hazard, one that is not always accommodated in legal vocabulary or in antiharassment laws. In Bangladesh, the Suppression of Violence Against Women and Children Act of 31 January 2000 for the first time made sexual harassment a criminal offence punishable by law. Section 10 (2) of the Women and Children Act states:

Any man who, in order to satisfy his lust in an improper manner, outrages the modesty of a woman, or makes obscene gestures, will have engaged in sexual harassment, and for this, the above mentioned male will be sentenced to rigorous imprisonment of not more than seven years and not less than two years and beyond this will be subjected to monetary fines as well (author translation, emphasis added).

The law is fairly straightforward, and deals with the expression of inappropriate sexual desire and conduct. In one sense it is quite comprehensive, as it is not limited to workplace conduct. But its language is limiting in other ways. It may or may not be possible to argue in a court of law that Doel, Khalil, Bashar and others attempted to "satisfy their lust" and thereby "outraged the modesty" of Simi. However, one could argue that the hostility and attacks on Simi, although frequently expressed in a sexualised idiom, may have been more about her female transgression of existing gender relations than about overt male sexual desires and demands. (This is one reason for the extreme hostility confronted by most garment workers on the streets of Dhaka.) That may be a sociological question that the courts are not equipped to deal with. Nevertheless, the definition of harassment in the existing law is limited since it focuses entirely on threats that are directly or indirectly of a sexual nature. Most important in this respect, the law assumes implicitly that what is at stake is a woman's modesty, presumably sexual modesty. Once normative notions of modesty and femininity are introduced into legislation, potentially dangerous terrain is opened up. Interpretations of what constitutes modesty and "appropriate" female behaviour are highly subjective and the legal protection of modesty can end up limiting rather than expanding women's freedom.

The European Commission offers a broader definition of sexual harassment that might be usefully drawn on in this context:

Sexual harassment means unwanted conduct of a sexual nature, or other conduct based on sex affecting the dignity of women and men at work. This includes unwelcome physical, verbal or non-verbal conduct. This conduct constitutes sexual harassment under three conditions: the behavior must be a) unwanted, improper or offensive b) refusal or acceptance of behaviour influences decisions concerning a job and c) the behaviour in question creates a working climate that is intimidating, hostile, or humiliating for the person. (European Commission, 1991 cited in Timmerman and Bajema: 423. Emphasis added.)

Like many discussions of sexual harassment, the European Commission definition focuses on the workplace and on harassment and intimidation by colleagues or superiors. It specifies rules for appropriate or normative behaviour at work. The objective is to protect subordinates from exploitation and provide a mechanism for disciplining those in power. It does not say anything specific about norms of behaviour in public places. However, the EU definition covers not only conduct of a sexual nature but also conduct based on sex affecting the dignity of women and men at work. The concept of dignity gets away from culturally loaded and highly contestable notions of modesty. It is gender- neutral and directly addresses question of an individual's human rights. In a similar vein, in an effort to define harassment that is not purely sexual, some scholars have suggested using the phrase "gender harassment." In the United States, in fact, one of the most widely used definitions of sexual harassment includes gender harassment, that is, conduct "expressing hostile, insulting or degrading attitudes against women." (Timmerman and Bajema: 423, emphasis added) Although not in the workplace, the behaviour of Doel, Khalil, and others could easily constitute gender harassment as defined in many jurisdictions of the United States.

In the absence of similar legislation in Bangladesh, an alternative approach could draw on existing laws that protect every citizen's right to equality, freedom from discrimination, and freedom of movement. A recent Supreme Court judgment from India is instructive. In the case of Apparel Export Promotion Council versus AK Chopra, (1999 SOL Case No. 36), a female employee of the firm complained of attempted molestation by her boss. The case eventually went to the Supreme Court, which argued, among other things, that physical contact with the female employee was not an essential ingredient of the charge of sexual harassment, given that the statement made by "Miss X" shows that the conduct of the respondent "constituted an act unbecoming of good behaviour, expected from a superior officer." The judgment goes on to state:

It was not the dictionary meaning of the word 'molestation' and 'physical assault' which was relevant. The entire episode reveals that the respondent had harassed, pestered and subjected Miss X, by a conduct which is against moral sanctions and which did not withstand the test of decency and modesty and which projected unwelcome sexual advances. Such an action on the part of the respondent would be squarely covered by the term 'sexual harassment'.

It should be noted that the parameters of decency, modesty and moral sanctions are taken for granted here and assumed to provide a guide for appropriate masculine behaviour. This 1999 judgment took its cue from the landmark Indian Supreme Court case of Visakha vs. The State of Rajasthan (1997). The Visakha ruling noted the lack of existing civil and penal laws for the specific protection of women from sexual harassment at places of work. In the absence of appropriate legislation, the Court took a proactive stand by issuing a set of guidelines to be followed by all institutions until appropriate legislation was enacted. The Supreme Court proceeded on the presumption that sexual harassment was a form of gender discrimination and violated the Fundamental Right to Gender Equality and Right to Life and Liberty as guaranteed by the Indian Constitution. Notably, the ruling made special use of international legal instruments, including the Convention on the Elimination of all forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW) and the Beijing Declaration, which direct all state parties to take appropriate measures to prevent all forms of discrimination against women. The ruling further noted that Article 7 of the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights recognises a woman's right to fair conditions of work.

Limitations of the law

What can we learn from the above rulings and definitions? Simi, it should be recalled, was being harassed because of the conditions of her work, even though she was not harassed at her workplace. Doel and others made the street a hostile, humiliating and intimidating place for her, no doubt affecting her working conditions in an indirect manner. The incessant public humiliation deprived her of her dignity as well as her sense of security. For Simi, such treatment was unbearable, "worse than rape", and, after a point, worse than death. Her rights as a citizen, a worker and a woman were all violated with impunity.

The current sexual harassment law in Bangladesh provides a point of departure, even if its language is troubling. Working women face a double hazard, inside the workplace as well as on the street. There are no written codes for behaviour on the street and, in any case, 'moral codes of decency' are applied selectively. This is a social reality that must be addressed in the law. Moreover, sexual harassment laws need to accommodate forms of gender harassment which are not explicitly sexual. It may very well be that the hostility being expressed through harassment is a sign of male social power, not sexual power. Assuming that laws that refer to female modesty are inherently limiting, it is advisable to take a cue from the Indian Supreme Court judgment cited earlier, and stress the violation of a woman's right to equality, and freedom from all forms of discrimination. These are rights that are enshrined in the Constitution of Bangladesh. To fill lacuna in existing legislation, reference can be made to international legal documents, including those of the International Labour Organisation and CEDAW, to which Bangladesh is a signatory.

Enacting progressive laws by itself will not suffice to change the situation, however. As we all know, it is critical to ensure that existing legislation be implemented and that those in charge of law enforcement be held accountable for their actions. By the same token, the efficacy of laws will be constantly undermined if social attitudes, especially widespread cultural tendencies of blaming the victim in cases of sexual harassment, are not transformed. This requires, among other things, serious gender-sensitisation training for those charged with protecting the rights of citizens, especially police personnel and judges. There can hardly be legal or police protection if the authorities a priori assume "guilt" or "moral laxity" on the part of women complainants. It was only when Simi was confronted with what has been called 'patriarchal collusion' — that is, once she was convinced that she had been judged and sentenced by the community as well as the police without even a semblance of a fair hearing — that she decided death was her only escape. It must now be the struggle of activists, scholars and legislators to work towards providing alternatives other than death to women like Simi.