Famila: a leader gone too early

It's been four years since she died. But Famila remains special in my memory. For many reasons. To me, the woman who walked into Indian Express those many years ago to speak about their Hijra Habba, opened my eyes to the third gender. Complexities, victimisation, their cries for help in an insensitive system...she spoke it all as a matter-of-fact. Not as an activist, although she was one. For someone who did not complete her degree and grew up in a conservative home, she was leader material. I remember how I became conscious in their presence...how the other staffers who passed by would give her and her friends curious looks.

She broke traditions within the hijra community. A difficult thing, considering that in our part of South India, they took quite a while to open up and assert themselves in a positive sort of way. She bore hostility from her peers and places of work in the bargain.

Her friend Kajal, the chirpy one who too died several months later, was equally endearing. ``When girls from rich families wear skimpy clothes and walk around on MG Road, people hardly talk against them. But when we stand on the same road for our bread and butter, police arrests us in the name of soliciting? Are those girls not soliciting too?'' These were Kajal's words at a conglomerate on women's issues held about six years back.

Am pasting below a feature about Famila, Kajal and a friend of theirs -- my first story for Tehelka, way back in 2004. In the picture, the first from right is Famila...Kajal is beside her. At the time of this interview, Famila had attempted suicide once. But had decided to put it behind her and start life afresh. She did not certainly know that there would be mayhem after her death. But that people would forget her soon and get on with creating more transgender stars.

``Call us Women''

Famila is in her 20s, speaks excellent English, and dresses well. Famila is aware of her legal rights and is a clear thinker. She represents the new generation of eunuchs, popularly known as hijras. They have a singular demand: "Call us women. Give us that status." Their appeal is justifiable. They are as vulnerable to violence and exploitation as women, but are seen as members of a 'third gender', which means belonging to an obscure sexual minority. But now, their demand is slowly and steadily gaining momentum. Famila talks easily about her occupation: 'voluntary sex work' (as she and her friends call it). "It is our choice. We are not trafficked or forced into it,'' they say. Unlike many of her peers who are confined to hamams or bathhouses and live in groups, she and her friends live independently. Famila used to work with an NGO for the welfare of sexual minorities, Sangama. "I had joined it as I thought it was a space for me to grow as an individual, with a lot of security,'' she says. She continued as a sex worker while she was employed by the NGO. "There was constant police harassment. Sangama did not like our (hijras) dressing up there in the evening to go out for sex work. They were afraid of the police,'' she says. "I was made to resign as I refused to give up sex work.'' A frustrated Famila attempted suicide in late December, 2003. She slit her wrist and had to be forced to seek medical help. She had a long-time affair with an unemployed married man who "was lazy, not willing to work. I had to support him. He did not like my paying attention to other men," she explains. A common thread links Famila and hundreds of women who attempt suicide every year. While many women go through depression because they are suffering, here it gets compounded because people like Famila 'choose' to be women. It is their in-built desire. What society forgets is that while social acceptability of hijras is dismal, they are as vulnerable to violence as women, be it rape, torture in police custody, gang rapes on streets that go unreported and even harassment within families. "Their depression is related to social stigma and sadism by males, or by wives of men who are attracted to them. These wives could make their life miserable,'' says the head of the Department of Psychiatry at St Martha's Hospital, Dr Ajit Bhide, who has counselled hijras. "Hijras are a variation of bisexuality. It is a disorder of sexual disorientation. Some of them are hermaphrodites with physical characteristics of women. But we need to destigmatise it,'' says Dr Bhide, comparing it to 'disability'. "If you do not have a hand you are disabled. But that does not mean you should be discriminated against,'' he says. Arvind Narrain, of the Alternative Law Forum, an NGO that contests cases for sexual minorities, echoes Bhide's opinion. "Medical curricula in medical colleges should be reformed to move beyond seeing transgenderism as a disease and a deviance,'' he says, adding that sex reassignment surgeries should be made available in government hospitals. Thanks to the ambiguity of gender, hijras are denied basic citizens' rights like a ration card, a driving license and passport by the government. In terms of employment, jobs are nil, as organisations do not employ them. "We have just four options-begging, sex work, cooking or being a fortune teller in a temple,'' says Famila. Most hijras prefer sex work as it does not require any special skill, she says. Hijra in Arabic means holy, and could have been derived from the Urdu word ezra meaning a wanderer or nomad, says a study conducted by The People's Union for Civil Liberties. Hijras claim a sacred place due to their third gender status. Most hijras in India live in groups that are organised into seven gharanas or houses in Pune, Mumbai and Hyderabad. "We have nayaks who appoint the spiritual gurus. The system is matriarchal. For example, Sneha is my daughter,'' says Famila, pointing towards Sneha. Sneha had to go to Hyderabad to take permission from the spiritual leaders, to accept Famila as her 'mother'. "The structure is flexible and if some day she does not want to be my daughter, she can opt out,'' she says. Famila is also Sneha's 'husband' symbolically, since no outsider would marry her. Sneha wears the black-bead chain, a symbol of 'matrimony'. Hijras go through a castration ceremony for acceptance into the community (bisexual hijras or kothis do not get castrated). Most hijras are born males, but a few are born hermaphrodites or inter-sexed. Taking that giant step towards castration is like moving a mountain for hijras. Famila says the sex reassignment surgery (SRS) is a pain. "I went to a place in Tamil Nadu. It is an open secret that some doctors do it. But while the surgical instruments were clean enough, I was made to sleep on benches in unhygienic conditions after that and bled in pain constantly. I suffered there for 20 days and was sent to Bangalore. Doctors refused to treat me here,'' she remembers. Famila then went to her family who got her hospitalised. Few lawyers take up hijras' cases. Giving hijras the status of women instead of talking about rights for the 'third gender' would help them in many ways, says Arvind Narrain. "The judiciary is not educated on this issue. It does not understand the deep psychological roots. Even women's movements have not taken note of it,'' he says. "It will be difficult to include that 'third gender', to amend every law. It is easier instead to call them women and say hijras in brackets through an amendment Act,'' he says. Famila's friend Kajol explains how this would make their lives easier. "At present, we have reservation of seats for women in buses. If we were to demand reservation, it would become difficult for everyone," she says. "But if we are given the status of women with 'hijra' referred to in brackets, it would help.'' Photographer K Venkatesh, who covered the Koovagam festival in Tamil Nadu and held an exhibition over a year ago, feels their demand is justified. "At that annual festival, there is a fashion show and then a religious ceremony for their 'marriage' to Lord Koothandavar. I have seen models at other fashion shows. But here, their involvement in spending on clothes, walking the ramp and the time for dressing up is so immense!'' he says. "They are as professional as other models. You can hardly make out the difference,'' says Venkatesh. His book of photographs on the festival is testimony to this. Famila and her friends organised the Hijra Habba last year, through Vividha, their collective forum. "We did not have the money. We had to start from scratch by manki, our tradition of begging,'' she says. The Hijra Habba 2003 (Festival of Eunuchs) brought its share of attention to the problems of eunuchs. "But after all the hard work, my own friends started accusing us organisers of 'eating up the money' and demanded explanations,'' Famila says. Some hijras in north India have entered politics, contested elections and become mayors of cities. But this is still a dream for their southern counterparts. Violence on sexual minorities has come down in recent years in Bangalore because of extensive work by NGOs and their awareness programmes. Though the violence still continues, there is hope. Famila found solace from her depression at the World Social Forum in Mumbai last month, where she met people like her. Today, she's raring to raise awareness for her brethren. THE LEGAL WEAPONS • "If I am into sex work, I only have to walk on the road and I will be charged with being a public nuisance." • The Criminal Tribes Act 1871 used by the British was one of the first steps towards violence against hijras • Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code criminalises any 'carnal intercourse against the order of nature' • Immoral Trafficking Prevention Act, 1986 is most often used against hijras though they say they are neither traffickers, nor are trafficked • Civil laws that deprive them of several rights such as the right to own property, right to marry, right to identity through passport, ration card, driver's license, education, employment and health